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This sole authorised edition of the Collected Works 
of Friedrich Nietzsche is issued under the editor- 
ship of ALEXANDER TILLE, Ph.D., Lecturer 
at the University of Glasgow. It is based on the 
final German edition (Leipzig: C. G. Naumann) 
prepared by Dr. Fritz Kocgel, and is published 
under the supervision of the Nietzsche-Archiv at 
Naumburg. Copyright in the United States by 
Macmillan and Co. All rights reserved. 









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THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA . . . . . . . . xxv 


Zarathustra's Introductory Speech on Beyond-Man and the 

Last Man i 

Zarathustra's Speeches 23 

Of the Three Metamorphoses 25 

Of the Chairs of Virtue 29 

Of Back-Worlds-Men 33 

Of the Despisers of Body 38 

Of Delights and Passions -41 

Of the Pale Criminal 44 

Of Reading and Writing . 48 

Of the Tree at the Hill 51 

Of the Preachers of Death 56 

Of War and Warriors ........ 59 

Of the New Idol 62 

Of the Flies of the Market 66 

Of Chastity 71 

Of the Friend 73 

Of a Thousand and One Goals 76 

Of Love for One's Neighbour ...... 80 

Of the Way of a Creator 83 

Of Little Women Old and Young 87 

Of the Bite of the Adder 91 




Of Child and Marriage 94 

Of Free Death 97 

Of Giving Virtue 102 


The Child with the Looking-Glass in 

On the Blissful Islands 115 

Of the Pitiful 119 

Of Priests 123 

Of the Virtuous 127 

Of the Rabble 132 

Of Tarantulas 136 

Of the Famous Wise Men 141 

The Night-Song 146 

The Dance-Song 149 

The Grave-Song 153 

Of Self-Overcoming 158 

Of the August 163 

Of the Country of Culture 167 

Of Immaculate Perception 171 

Of Scholars 176 

Of Poets 179 

Of Great Events 184 

The Fortune-Teller 190 

Of Salvation 196 

Of Manly Prudence 204 

The Still Hour 209 


The Wanderer 217 

Of the Vision and the Riddle 222 

Of Involuntary Bliss 230 

Before Sunrise ......... 235 

Of Virtue that Maketh Smaller ...... 240 



On the Mount of Olives 248 

Of Passing 253 

Of Apostates 258 

Return Homeward 264 

Of the Three Evil Ones 270 

Of the Spirit of Gravity 278 

Of Old and New Tables . . 285 

The Convalescent One . . . . . .. -313 

Of Great Longing . . . 323 

The Second Dance-Song . . . . . . 327 

The Seven Seals (or the Song of Yea and Amen) . . . 333 


The Honey-Offering 341 

The Cry for Help . . . . * . . . . -347 

Conversation with the Kings 353 

The Leech 359 

The Wizard 364 

Off Duty 374 

The Ugliest Man 381 

The Voluntary Beggar 389 

The Shadow 396 

At Noon 401 

Salutation 406 

The Supper 414 

Of Higher Man 418 

The Song of Melancholy 433 

Of Science 440 

Among Daughters of the Desert 445 

The Awakening 453 

The Ass-Festival 458 

The Drunken Song 464 

The Sign 475 



At various periods of his life Nietzsche designated different 
written and unwritten books of his as his " principal work." 
The composition of some of them never advanced very far, and 
whilst in the midst of his " Transvaluation of all Values," the 
First Part of which is the "Antichrist," he was forever disabled 
by an incurable disease. If one has a right to speak of the 
principal work of a mental life that never reached its goal, 
but was suddenly crippled in mid-career, the strange fact ap- 
pears, that Nietzsche's masterpiece is not one of his purely 
philosophical books, but a work, half philosophy, half fiction ; 
half an ethical sermon, half a story ; a book serio-jocular and 
scientific-fantastical ; historico-satirical, and realistico-idealistic ; 
a novel embracing worlds and ages and, at the same time, ex- 
pressing a pure essence of Nietzsche, his astounding prose- 
poem Thus Spake Zarathustra. 

Thus Spake Zarathustra is without doubt the strangest prod- 
uct of modern German literature ; and that says a good deal. 
If it is to be compared with other works of World Literature, 
perhaps it is nearest the Three Baskets of Buddhism, the Tripi- 
taka. It has the same elevated prose style as that sacred book 
of the East, in narrating a comparatively simple story, full of 
parables and sayings of wisdom ; it has the same solemn, long- 
drawn-out method of relating ; it has the same fantastic way 
of looking at the world and life ; whilst in the idea of eternal 
recurrence called by Nietzsche the genuine Zarathustra thought, 


it rather approaches Brahmanism than Buddhism. In similar 
respects the Gospels may be said to have formed its model, 
not only in the way of telling the tale, but also in the tone and 
mode of transvaluing current ideas ; in the division into small 
chapters and prose verses ; in the way of forming sentences ; 
and in phrases and words ; and this although the general drift 
of thought, more especially the ethical teaching, goes in a 
direction so different. 

In English literature there are two books to which, by its 
allegorical basis and wealth of moral wisdom, Nietzsche's work 
shows a strong similarity, viz., Piers the Ploughman and Bun- 
yan's Pilgrim* 's Progress. Though separated by centuries, these 
two are, with comparatively slight modifications, traversed by 
the same stream of thought, which is well known to be the 
essence of the grand system of mediaeval theology and religion. 
The author of Pie rs the Ploughman was, in numerous respects, 
ahead of his time, while the plain man John Bunyan had 
scarcely shared the intellectual advancement of the century 
and a half preceding the date of his death. While the Tripi- 
taka and the Gospels deal with historical personages, the 
Ploughman and the Pilgrim are not at all historical, although 
resembling Sakyamuni Buddha and the Christ of the Gospels 
in one respect : in each case, the biography presents its hero 
as a moral ideal. Yet the Ploughman and the Pilgrim are 
true in another sense : they represent after a sort ideal aspi- 
rations of two ages and show us more clearly than any learned 
treatise could do, what in these ages was regarded as highest 
and worthiest of human effort, by men who had turned away 
from life, and sought for satisfaction in their own consciousness. 

In German literature, leaving out of account the old Gospel- 
Harmonies, which are not works of original fiction in the proper 
sense, the germs of much that is in Zarathustra may be traced 


distinctly enough. For example, Ruckert's Wisdom of the 
Brahman, has many suggestions of Nietzsche's book, the third 
part of which has been strongly influenced by it. The whole 
orientalising and didactic poetry of the nineteenth century in 
Germany is inspired by Goethe's Western-Eastern Divan, and 
although Nietzsche's work does not show that influence to the 
same extent as A. W. Schlegel, Riickert, Platen, Bodenstedt, 
and Count Schack, yet it is historically in more than one respect 
connected with that literary school. 

The work takes its title from the mythological founder or 
reformer of the Avestic religion, Zarathustra, whose name, 
in its Greek mutilated form, Zoroaster, is familiar to British 
readers. As the Antichrist shows, Nietzsche had made some 
studies in oriental religious literature, which Professor Max 
Muller's Sacred Books of the East had brought within the reach 
of educated Europe. Yet he either neglected Persian religious 
tradition or purposely in his prose-poem made no use of any 
knowledge he possessed in that field. Though attracted by 
the solemn sound of the name, which in a high degree pleased 
his musical ear, he declined to describe the life of his hero after 
the model of the Gathas, which according to Professor Darme- 
steter form the oldest part of the Avesta, though belonging, in 
their present form at least, to no earlier date than the first cen- 
tury of our era. Nietzsche's Zarathustra is neither of the family 
of Spitama, nor is he the husband of Frahaoshtra's daughter 
Huogvi, nor yet the father-in-law of Jamaspa, who had married 
Pourusishta, Zarathustra's daughter; but he has been disen- 
tangled from the whole mythological circle of which the Zara- 
thustra of Persian sacred tradition is part. He is a solitary 
man, he has no relations, not even a sister. But, like Buddha, 
Christ, and old Zarathustra, he has a few disciples. Of a 
miraculous birth of his we learn nothing in Nietzsche's poem. 


No ray of the Divine Majesty descends into the womb of 
Dughdo ; no Frohar or genius of Zarathustra is enclosed in a 
Homa plant, 1 in order to be absorbed at a sacrifice by Paurush- 
aspa, from whose union with Dughdo old Zarathustra was born 
according to the later prose literature of the Avesta ; no dangers 
are escaped by him till he is thirty years of age, although 
Nietzsche's Zarathustra begins to teach people at the same date, 
when his old model began his conversations with Ahura and 
received from him his revelations ; nothing is said about him 
having had only one disciple for ten years and having con- 
verted then two sons of Hogva, till at last king Vishtaspa him- 
self was gained over to Zarathustra's religion by his queen 
Hutaosa. The modern Zarathustra is neither killed in the 
battle nor has he any sons who might carry on his work after 
his death. He stands quite alone, his only permanent com- 
panions being two animals, an eagle and a serpent. He is 
neither an historical nor a mythical person, but a " ghost," as 
Nietzsche would have called him, a type existing nowhere, and 
yet the incorporation of wishes and aspirations ; an ideal re- 
flected in a human image ; a man as man should be in Nietzsche's 
opinion, and as he would have liked to be himself. 

Under these circumstances it is but natural that in Nietzsche's 
Zarathustra there should be a strong personal element ; that he 
should be part of Nietzsche himself. He has his creator's love 
for loneliness and wild rocky mountains ; his love for the sea 
and its wonders ; his love for a simple life almost in poverty ; 
like him he is an eager wanderer ; he has his extreme individ- 
ualism ; and a hundred great and small events in his story are 
reflections of small and great occurrences in Nietzsche's own 
life. Yet, as Nietzsche has not even made an attempt in his 

1 Max Miiller's Chips from a German Workshop. Vol. I. 1894. p. 
474 ff. 


prose-poem to represent modern life and its outward appear- 
ances, all these things are veiled under allegorical and typical 
persons, things, and incidents, so that, e.g., Richard Wagner 
plays the part of an evil wizard, and a modern specialist wears 
the mask of the Conscientious one of the Spirit, one who knows 
only the brain of the leech, but that thoroughly. And as 
Nietzsche's early writings failed to appeal to the public, and 
his picturesque style was later on imitated and distorted by 
inferior writers, Zarathustra's speech is beaten by a rope-dan- 
cer's performance, and, when approaching the great city, he 
meets the Raging Fool who regards himself as the image of 
his teacher and is anxious to keep the public of the great city 
for himself. 

The scene of Thus Spake Zarathustra is laid, as it were, 
outside of time and space, and certainly outside of countries 
and nations, outside of this age, and outside of the main con- 
dition of all that lives the struggle for existence. Zarathus- 
tra has not to work for his bread, but has got it without effort. 
His eagle and his serpent provide him with all he needs, and 
whenever they are not with him, he finds men who supply him. 
Thus there is something of the miraculous in his story, and the 
personification of lifeless objects and the gift of speech con- 
ferred upon them are frequently made use of. True, in his 
story there appear cities and mob, kings and scholars, poets 
and cripples, but outside of their realm there is a province 
which is Zarathustra's own, where he lives in his cave amid the 
rocks, and whence he thrice goes to men to teach them his wis- 
dom pointing away from all that unites and separates men at 
present. This Nowhere and Nowhen, over which Nietzsche's 
imagination is supreme, is a province of boundless individual- 
ism, in which a man of mark has free play, unfettered by the 
tastes and inclinations of the multitude. 


What far more than style or story separates Thus Spake 
Zarathustra from the Tripitaka and the Gospels, from Piers 
and the Pilgrim, is the creed contained in it. Thus Spake 
Zarathustra is a kind of summary of the intellectual life of 
the nineteenth century, and it is on this fact that its principal 
significance rests. It unites in itself a number of mental move- 
ments which, in literature as well as in various sciences, have 
made themselves felt separately during the last hundred years, 
without going far beyond them. By bringing them into con- 
tact, although not always into uncontradictory relation, Niet- 
zsche transfers them from mere existence in philosophy, or 
scientific literature in general, into the sphere of the creed or 
Weltanschauung of the educated classes, and thus his book 
becomes capable of influencing the views and strivings of a 
whole age. His immense rhetorical power and rhapsodic gift 
give them a stress they scarcely possessed before. His enthu- 
siasm and energy of thought animate them, and his lyrical 
talent transforms them into " true poetry " for the believers in 
them. He makes the freest use of traditional wisdom, of prov- 
erbs and sayings of poets and philosophers that can easily 
be traced to their original source, partly by repeating them 
but slightly altered, partly by transforming them considerably, 
partly by turning them into their contrary, or even into more 
than that, by giving them a new point altogether, while keep- 
ing nine-tenths of their old form. And this close connection 
with the wisdom of the century gives a person who is well read 
in German literature of the present century quite a peculiar 
pleasure in reading the book. It is almost inconceivable that 
Nietzsche should have gone through the amount of reading 
which would be necessary to gather all these things from the 
places in which individual minds had placed them for the first 
time. A great number of them indeed belong to the treasury 


of quotations familiar to literary men. But even in explaining 
the knowledge of many of the others a large part will have to 
be ascribed to oral communication from persons who were 
probably no longer conscious of the fact that they uttered 
sayings of others. 

However peculiar a book Thus Spake Zarathustra be, it 
stands neither in its form nor in its tendencies quite isolated 
in modern German literature. A similar aim is pursued by the 
whole Weltanschauungsroman, which since the early seventies 
of this century has partly taken an historical turn, and has by 
preference dealt with subjects from periods of history which 
show the like struggle about religious belief, as the present 
time. Books like Felix Dahn's prose-poem Odhiris Trost 
(1880) are very much like Zarathustra in style, form, and 
general drift of thought, only that much more stress is laid on 
the story and their purpose is not mainly philosophico-didactic. 
The philosophy of the Gods and warriors appearing in Dahn's 
novel, differs little from Zarathustra's wisdom except as regards 
the extreme individualism of the latter. The lake-dwelling 
story in Auch Einer by Friedrich Theodor Vischer (1879) 
shows the same element of travesty as prevails in Zarathustra, 
and the religious examination of the lake-dwellers' children is 
based on exactly the same feelings and the same criticism as 
the Ass-Festival in Nietzsche's book. The tendency of 
modern German lyrics to prefer free rhythms to rhymed verses 
based on a regular change of accented and unaccented sylla- 
bles, spreads far beyond Zarathustra, in which it is mixed with 
some elements of ancient Greek hymnology. Most of these 
books, especially those by Dahn, show in some respects a very 
advanced state of thought, whilst in others they delight in sub- 
mitting to old fancies and antiquated prejudices. In the same 
way Zarathustra mixes with the highest knowledge of our time 


bold and unreasonable speculations like the idea of eternal 
recurrence, according to which all that is has been infinite 
times before in exactly the same way, and will recur infinitely 
in future, and Zarathustra boasts to be the first to teach this 
grand illusion. Indeed at another place he carries his indi- 
vidualism so far as to counsel people to kill themselves at the 
right time, in order not to become superfluous on earth. 

Among the numerous intellectual currents which gather in 
the channel of Thus Spake Zarathustra in order to be con- 
veyed to the ocean of general cultured, and subsequently 
popular, opinion, three take a prominent place, the individ- 
ualistic, the free religious, and the evolutional utilitarian move- 
ments, the springs of all of which go back to last century. 
These currents are neither the only ones that flow through 
Nietzsche's book, nor do they appear clearly separated from 
other minor tendencies. The first and the third are in more 
than one respect in opposite directions to each other. Yet 
they may be said to express the leading motives of the book. 

The greatest German historian of to-day distinguishes three 
stages in the evolution of mental life, symbolical, conventional, 
and individual mental life. In Western Europe the period of 
individual mental life begins with the time of the Reforma- 
tion, the doctrine of private judgment in matters of belief 
being its clearest expression. It is only since then that the 
theory was developed that opinions are free. This field was 
in the course of time somewhat enlarged, so as to cover other 
things besides opinion. In political thought the school of 
Anarchism is an outcome of this idea, and Humboldt, Duno- 
yer, Stirner, Bakounine, and Auberon Spencer are probably 
the best-known representatives of these tendencies. Even 
Herbert Spencer shows traces so marked of this doctrine, 
that Huxley could name his theory Administrative Nihilism. 


The same tendencies which in political speculation take the 
form of theoretical anarchism, prevail, to a smaller extent, in 
modern ethics, in modern philosophy generally, and, perhaps 
even in larger measure, in modern religious concepts, in which 
everybody claims the right to build up for himself a Universe 
of his own. By Huxley this liberty has been sanctified by the 
name of Agnosticism. 

Nietzsche's mind is as unpolitical as possible. The modern 
state is for him nothing but a new idol. He does not believe 
in nations and countries, and is indifferent about any special 
form of Government, except that he hates from the bottom of 
his soul democracy as the depth of decadence. In his eyes 
the teachers of equality are tarantulas, and Huxley's essay On 
the Natural Inequality of Men would have delighted him. 
But he pays no special attention to political and social ques- 
tions. The competition of nations for the surface of the earth 
is neglected by him entirely, and his few speculations about a 
further evolution of larger groups of individuals suffer seriously 
from his apathy towards everything called social. He deals 
with men almost exclusively as individuals, and has beautiful 
words on man's moral self-education, on friendship, and on 
love, but none for labour and its reward. For him the 
struggle for existence is not the source of all power and 
efficiency. His ideal is the lonely philosopher, the creator, 
as he calls him ; and in what he demands from man in this 
respect he has scarcely been surpassed. 

When, about the middle of last century, Lessing and Reima- 
rus had considerably shaken the position of theoretical church 
doctrines, it did not take long, till, under the influence of the 
French encyclopaedists, attempts were made to replace them 
by altogether different concepts. Wieland's philosophical 
novels and part of Goethe's prose writings led the way. 


Then in the nineteenth century a whole literature bearing on 
the subject arose. Ludwig Feuerbach, Karl Gutzkow, Hein- 
rich Heine, David Strauss, F. Th. Vischer, Eduard von Hart- 
mann, and Felix Dahn are its principal representatives. And 
Ludwig Feuerbach has given this free religious movement a 
motto by the saying : " God was my first, Reason my second, 
and Man my third and last thought. Man alone is and must 
be our God. No salvation outside of Man." The same idea 
which made James Cotter Morrison writing on the decrease of 
religious influence and the increase of morality title his book : 
Service of Man, in opposition to the Service of God preached 
by the churches all over the world, is at the root of that Ger- 
man movement, the most prominent representative of which 
in modern Germany is Friedrich Nietzsche. His Zarathustra 
deals with the latest phases of the belief in God. In many 
respects he adopts the same attitude as Heinrich Heine, but 
his criticism of Christianity is most akin to that of perhaps the 
freest spirit of modern Germany, Karl Gutzkow, whose foot- 
steps he follows. 

The connection between natural science and literature has 
always, in Germany as elsewhere, been very loose. True, 
Albrecht von Haller made some attempts to bring them into 
contact, and Goethe tried to attain the same end in his Wahl- 
venvandtschaften and in other writings : up to the present time 
the world has no literature which has taken into itself even the 
most important knowledge which natural science regards as 
definitively fixed ; and the literary historian who would take up 
as his subject a history of the conversations on Darwinism 
occurring in modern novels would produce a most astounding 
book that could not fail to make any scientist laugh in his 
most melancholy hours. Yet there are certain parallel devel- 
opments in literature and science which by no means lack 


significance ; and the history of modern evolutional utilitarian- 
ism in ethics is perhaps the most astonishing among them. If 
it was the last goal of mediaeval ethical speculation to find the 
way to heaven by fulfilling the commandments of God, another 
goal was, after the sixteenth century, set up the goal of so- 
called eudaemonistic utilitarianism. It was to be reached by 
furtherance of the happiness of one's fellowmen. But before 
it was, in this century, called by Bentham the greatest possible 
happiness of the greatest possible number, or the maximisation 
of happiness, it had, in German philosophy and literature been 
superseded by another goal, which is usually called the goal 
of Perfectionism. Under the influence of Greek antiquity it 
had become the aim of the educated man to work out his own 
perfection in every respect. Leibniz is the most important 
representative of that school, which, in the course of the eigh- 
teenth century, borrowed a whole phraseology from the world 
of art. It was Goethe, who, after the model of the French 
phrases former le cceur and former r esprit, coined the new 
word Bildung which later on became identical partly with 
culture and partly with education. He is probably the most 
pronounced perfectionist who has ever lived. Early in his 
youth he called his Faust a Beyond- Man, an Uebermensch. 
His aim it was to make his own life a great work of art. And 
yet in Wilhehn Meister's Wanderjahren he stands at the 
threshold of a new phase in the evolution of individual perfec- 
tionism, of the phase of racial perfectionism. This phase was 
opened by Prince Piickler-Muskau, who was the first to lay 
before his contemporaries the idea of leading the human race 
to a higher perfection by means of artificial selection, after the 
model of the breeder of animals and the father of Frederic 
the Great, who is said to have married by preference his tallest 
grenadiers to tall ladies in order to beget a still taller offspring. 


Prince Puckler-Muskau, however, was scarcely taken seriously, 
and even when Wilhelm Jordan took up the idea in his Demi- 
urgos of 1854 and Radenhausen in his book Isis, Man and 
World, scarcely anybody thought of its far-reaching impor- 
tance. It was only after Darwin had in his Origin of Species 
of 1859 placed the whole idea of evolution on a scientific basis, 
that the same poet Wilhelm Jordan could celebrate in his epos 
Die Nibdunge the higher bodily and intellectual development 
of the human race as the great goal of humanity, and the 
centre of ethical obligations. He connected it with patriarchal 
matrimonial institutions, and made it the point of view from 
which his heroes select wives for their sons. Although clearly 
pronounced in at least twenty passages of that epic, it failed 
to attract public sympathy for a considerable time, and only 
after Nietzsche (who follows Jordan closely in all details) 
had taken up the idea and made it almost the leading motive 
of his Zarathustra, did it impress itself upon large circles of the 
educated youth. And it is Nietzsche's undeniable merit to 
have led this new moral ideal to a complete victory, so that 
from his writings it rapidly spread over German lyrics and epic 

Nietzsche himself tells us that the fundamental idea of his 
Zarathustra originated in August 1881 in the Engadine. The 
composition of the work extended over about two years. The 
First Part was written in January and February 1883 near 
Genoa ; the Second Part in Sils Maria in June and July of the 
same year ; the Third Part in the following winter at Nice, and 
the Fourth Part from November 1884 till February 1885 at 
Mentone. The Fourth Part, which was then not intended to 
be the last, but rather an Interlude of the whole poem, was 
never published by Nietzsche, but merely printed for private 
circulation among a few friends. It was not publicly issued till 


after the outbreak of Nietzsche's illness, in March 1892, so that 
the whole of Zarathustra, containing all four parts, appeared no 
earlier than July 1892, since which time it has gone through 
several editions. 

The aim of the present translation has been to give the 
meaning of the German text as exactly as could be done. 
Where several interpretations of words or sentences were pos- 
sible, as is rather frequently the case, that interpretation was 
chosen which seemed to agree best with the context, although 
the decision of this question is in many cases quite arbitrary. 
For the few facts regarding the composition of Thus Spake 
Zarathustra the editor is obliged to Dr. Fritz Koegel's Nach- 
bcricht to Vol. VI of the German edition. 





Having attained the age of thirty Zarathustra left 
his home and the lake of his home and went into the 
mountains. There he rejoiced in his spirit and his 
loneliness and, for ten years, did not grow weary of 
it. But at last his heart turned, one morning he 
got up with the dawn, stepped into the presence of 
the Sun and thus spake unto him : 

"Thou great star! What would be thy happiness, 
were it not for those for whom thou shinest. 

For ten years thou hast come up here to my cave. 
Thou wouldst have got sick of thy light and thy jour- 
ney but for me, mine eagle, and my serpent. 

But we waited for thee every morning and, receiv- 
ing from thee thine abundance, blessed thee for it. 

Lo ! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that 
hath collected too much honey; I need hands reaching 
out for it. 

I would fain grant and distribute until the wise 
among men could once more enjoy their folly, and 
the poor once more their riches. 

For that end I must descend to the depth : as 
thou dost at even, when, sinking behind the sea, 

B I 


thou givest light to the lower regions, thou resplendent 

I must, like thee, go down, as men say men to 
whom I would descend. 

Then bless me, thou impassive eye that canst look 
without envy even upon over-much happiness! 

Bless the cup which is about to overflow so that 
the water golden-flowing out of it may carry every- 
where the reflection of thy rapture. 

Lo! this cup is about to empty itself again, and 
Zarathustra will once more become a man." 

Thus Zarathustra's going down began. 

Zarathustra stepped down the mountains alone and 
met with nobody. But when he reached the woods, 
suddenly there stood in front of him an old man who 
had left his hermitage to seek roots in the forest. 
And thus the old man spake unto Zarathustra: 

"No stranger to me is the wanderer : many years 
ago he passed here. Zarathustra was his name; but 
he hath changed. 

Then thou carriedst thine ashes to the mountains: 
wilt thou to-day carry thy fire to the valleys? Dost 
thou not fear the incendiary's doom? 

Yea, I know Zarathustra again. Pure is his eye, 
nor doth any loathsomeness lurk about his mouth. 
Doth he not skip along like a dancer? 


Changed is Zarathustra, a child Zarathustra became, 
awake is Zarathustra : what art thou going to do among 
those who sleep ? 

As in the sea thou livedst in loneliness, and wert 
borne by the sea. Alas ! art thou now going to walk 
on the land ? Alas, art thou going to drag thy body 
thyself ? " 

Zarathustra answered : " I love men." 

" Why," said the saint, " did I go to the forest and 
desert? Was it not because I loved men greatly 
over-much ? 

Now I love God : men I love not. Man is a thing 
far too imperfect for me. Love of men would kill me." 

Zarathustra answered : " What did I say of love ! 
I am bringing gifts to men." 

" Do not give them anything," said the saint. 
" Rather take something from them and bear their 
burden along with them that will serve them best: 
if it only serve thyself well ! 

And if thou art going to give them aught, give 
them no more than an alms, and let them beg even 
for that." 

" No," said Zarathustra, "I do not give alms. I 
am not poor enough for that." 

The saint laughed at Zarathustra and spake thus : 
" Then see to it that they accept thy treasures ! They 
are suspicious of hermits and do not believe that we 
are coming in order to give. 


In their ears our steps sound too lonely through 
the streets. And just when during the night in their 
beds they hear a man going long before sunrise 
they sometimes ask : whither goeth that thief ? 

Go not to men, but tarry in the forest! Rather 
go to the animals ! Why wilt thou not be like me, 
a bear among bears, a bird among birds ? " 

" And what doth the saint in the forest ? " asked 

The saint answered : " I make songs and sing 
them, and making songs I laugh, cry, and hum : I 
praise God thus. 

With singing, crying, laughing, and humming I 
praise that God who is my God. But what gift 
bringest thou to us ? " 

Having heard these words Zarathustra bowed to 
the saint and said : " What could I give to you ! 
But let me off quickly, lest I take aught from you." 
And thus they parted from each other, the old 
man and the man like two boys laughing. 

When Zarathustra was alone, however, he spake 
thus unto his heart : " Can it actually be possible ! 
This old saint in his forest hath not yet heard aught 
of God being dead ! ' ' 


Arriving at the next town which lieth nigh the 
forests Zarathustra found there many folk gathered in 


the market; for a performance had been promised by 
a rope-dancer. And Zarathustra thus spake unto the 

" I teach you beyond-man. Man is a something that 
shall be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass 
him ? 

All beings hitherto have created something beyond 
themselves : and are ye going to be the ebb of this 
great tide and rather revert to the animal than surpass 

What with man is the ape ? A joke or a sore 
shame. Man shall be the same for beyond-man, a 
joke or a sore shame. 

Ye have made your way from worm to man, and 
much within you is still worm. Once ye were apes, 
even now man is ape in a higher degree than any ape. 

He who is the wisest among you is but a discord 
and hybrid of plant and ghost. But do I order you 
to become ghosts or plants ? 

Behold, I teach you beyond-man ! 

Beyond-man is the significance of earth. Your will 
shall say : beyond-man shall be the significance of 

I conjure you, my brethren, remain faithful to earth 
and do not believe those who speak unto you of 
superterrestrial hopes ! Poisoners they are whether 
they know it or not. 

Despisers of life they are, decaying and themselves 


poisoned, of whom earth is weary : begone with 
them ! 

Once the offence against God was the greatest 
offence, but God died, so that these offenders died 
also. Now the most terrible of things is to offend 
earth and rate the intestines of the inscrutable one 
higher than the significance of earth! 

Once soul looked contemptuously upon body; that 
contempt then being the highest ideal : soul wished 
the body meagre, hideous, starved. Thus soul thought 
it could escape body and earth. 

Oh ! that soul was itself meagre, hideous, starved : 
cruelty was the lust of that soul! 

But ye also, my brethren, speak : what telleth your 
body of your soul ? Is your soul not poverty and dirt 
and a miserable ease ? 

Verily, a muddy stream is man. One must be a 
sea to be able to receive a muddy stream without 
becoming unclean. 

Behold, I teach you beyond-man : he is that sea, in 
him your great contempt can sink. 

What is the greatest thing ye can experience? 
That is the hour of great contempt. The hour in 
which not only your happiness, but your reason and 
virtue as well turn loathsome. 

The hour in which ye say: 'What is my happiness 
worth ! It is poverty and dirt and a miserable ease. 
But my happiness should itself justify existence ! ' 


The hour in which ye say : ' What is my reason 
worth ! Longeth it for knowledge as a lion for its 
food ? It is poverty and dirt and a miserable ease.' 

The hour in which ye say : ' What is my virtue 
worth ! It hath not yet lashed me into rage. How 
tired I am of my good and mine evil ! All that is 
poverty and dirt and a miserable ease ! ' 

The hour in which ye say: 'What is my justice 
worth ! I do not see that I am flame and fuel. But 
the just one is flame and fuel ! ' 

The hour in which ye say : ' What is my pity 
worth ! Is pity not the cross to which he is being 
nailed who loveth men ? But my pity is no crucifixion.' 

Spake ye ever like that ? Cried ye ever like that ? 
Alas ! would that I had heard you cry like that ! 

Not your sin, your moderation crieth unto heaven, 
your miserliness in sin even crieth unto heaven ! 

Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue ? 
Where is that insanity with which ye ought to be 
inoculated ? 

Behold ! I teach you beyond-man : he is that light- 
ning, he is that insanity ! " 

Zarathustra having spoken thus one of the folk 
shouted : " We have heard enough of the rope-dancer ; 
let us see him now ! " And all the folk laughed at 
Zarathustra. The rope-dancer, however, who thought 
he was meant by that word started with his perform- 


But Zarathustra looked at the folk and wondered. 
Then he spake thus : 

" Man is a rope connecting animal and beyond- 
man, a rope over a precipice. 

Dangerous over, dangerous on-the-way, dangerous 
looking backward, dangerous shivering and making a 

What is great in man is that he is a bridge and 
not a goal : what can be loved in man is that he is 
a transition and a destruction. 

I love those who do not know how to live unless 
in perishing, for they are those going beyond. 

I love the great despisers because they are the 
great adorers, they are arrows of longing for the 
other shore. 

I love those who do not seek behind the stars for 
a reason to perish and be sacrificed, but who sacrifice 
themselves to earth in order that earth may some day 
become beyond-man's. 

I love him who liveth to perceive, and who is long- 
ing for perception in order that some day beyond-man 
may live. And thus he willeth his own destruction. 

I love him who worketh and inventeth to build a 
house for beyond-man and make ready for him earth, 
animal, and plant; for thus he willeth his own de- 


I love him who loveth his virtue : for virtue is 
will to destruction and an arrow of longing. 

I love him who keepeth no drop of spirit for him- 
self, but willeth to be entirely the spirit of his virtue : 
thus as a spirit crosseth he the bridge. 

I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination 
and his fate : thus for the sake of his virtue he 
willeth to live longer and live no more. 

I love him who yearneth not after too many 
virtues. One virtue is more than two because it 
is so much the more a knot on which to hang 

I love him whose soul wasteth itself, who neither 
wanteth thanks nor returneth aught : for he always 
giveth and seeketh nothing to keep of himself. 

I love him who is ashamed when the dice are 
thrown in his favour and who then asketh : am I a 
cheat in playing? for he desireth to perish. 

I love him who streweth golden words before his 
deeds and perf ormeth still more than his promise ; for 
he seeketh his own destruction. 

I love him who justifieth the future ones and 
saveth the past ones; for he seeketh to perish on 
account of the present ones. 

I love him who chastiseth his God because he 
loveth his God ; for he must perish on account of 
the wrath of his God. 

I love him whose soul is deep even when wounded 


and who can perish even on account of a small 
affair; for he gladly crosseth the bridge. 

I love him whose soul is over-full so that he for- 
getteth himself and all things are within him : thus 
all things become his destruction. 

I love him who is of a free spirit and of a free 
heart : thus his head is merely the intestine of his 
heart, but his heart driveth him to destruction. 

I love all those who are like heavy drops falling 
one by one from the dark cloud lowering over men : 
they announce the coming of the lightning and perish 
in the announcing. 

Behold, I am an announcer of the lightning and 
a heavy drop from the clouds : that lightning's name 
is beyond-man" 


Having spoken these words Zarathustra again looked 
at the folk and was silent. "There they are stand- 
ing," he said unto his heart, "there they are laugh- 
ing : they do not understand me, I am not the mouth 
for these ears. 

Must they needs have their ears beaten to pieces 
before they will learn to hear with their eyes ? Must 
one rattle like a kettledrum and a fast-day-preacher ? 
Or do they only believe stammerers ? 

They have got something to be proud of. How 
name they what maketh them proud ? Education 


they name it; it distinguishes them from the goat- 

Wherefore they like not to hear the word contempt 
used of themselves. Thus I am going to speak unto 
their pride. 

Thus I am going to speak unto them of the most 
contemptible : that is of the last man," 

And thus Zarathustra spake unto the folk : 

" It is time for man to mark out his goal. It is 
time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope. 

His soil is still rich enough for that purpose. But 
one day that soil will be impoverished and tame, no 
high tree being any longer able to grow from it. 

Alas ! the time cometh when man will no longer 
throw the arrow of his longing beyond man and the 
string of his bow will have lost the cunning to 
whizz ! 

I tell you : one must have chaos within to enable 
one to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you : ye 
have still got chaos within. 

Alas ! the time cometh when man will no longer 
give birth to any star ! Alas ! There cometh the 
time of the most contemptible man who can no 
longer despise himself. 

Behold ! I show you the last man. 

' What is love ? What is creation ? What is long- 
ing ? What is star ? ' thus the last man asketh 


Then earth will have become small, and on it the 
last man will be hopping who maketh everything 
small. His kind is indestructible like the ground- 
flea; the last man liveth longest. 

' We have invented happiness ' the last men say 

They have left the regions where it was hard to 
live, for one must have warmth. One still loveth 
his neighbour and rubbeth one's self on him ; for 
warmth one must have. 

To turn sick and to have suspicion are regarded 
as sinful. They walk wearily. A fool he who still 
stumbleth over stones or men. 

A little poison now and then : that causeth pleasant 
dreams. And much poison at last for an easy death. 

They still work, for work is an entertainment. 
But they are careful, lest the entertainment exhaust 

They no longer grow poor and rich ; it is too trouble- 
some to do either. No herdsman and one flock ! 
Each willeth the same, each is equal : he who feel- 
eth otherwise voluntarily goeth into a lunatic asylum. 

' Once all the world was lunatic ' the most 
refined say blinking. 

One is clever and knoweth whatever has happened 
so that there is no end of mocking. They still quar- 
rel, but they are soon reconciled otherwise the 
stomach would turn. 


One hath one's little lust for the day and one's little 
lust for the night : but one honoureth health. 

' We have invented happiness ' the last men say 

And here ended Zarathustra's first speech which 
is also called " the introductory speech " : for in that 
moment the shouting and merriment of the folk inter- 
rupted him. "Give us that last man, O Zarathustra" 
thus they bawled "make us that last man! We 
gladly renounce beyond-man ! " And all the folk 
cheered smacking with the tongue. But Zarathustra 
sadly said unto his heart : 

" They understand me not : I am not the mouth 
for these ears. 

I suppose I lived too long in the mountains listen- 
ing too much to brooks and trees : now for them my 
speech is like that of goat-herds. 

Unmoved is my soul and bright like the mountains 
in the morning. But they deem me cold and a mocker 
with terrible jokes. 

And now they look at me and laugh : and while they 
laugh they hate me. There is ice in their laughter." 

Then a thing happened which silenced every mouth 
and fixed every eye. For in the meantime the rope- 
dancer had begun his performance : he had stepped 
out of the little door and walked along the rope that 


was stretched between two towers so that it hung 
over the market and the folk. When he was just 
midway the little door opened again and a gay-coloured 
fellow like a clown jumped out and walked with quick 
steps after the first. " Go on, lame-leg," his terrible 
voice shouted, " go on, slow-step, smuggler, pale-face ! 
That I may not tickle thee with my heel ! What dost 
thou here between towers ? Thy place is in the tower. 
Thou shouldst be imprisoned. Thou barrest the free 
course to one who is better than thou art ! " And 
with each word the clown drew nearer and nearer : 
but when he was just one step behind the terrible 
thing happened, which silenced every mouth and 
fixed every eye : uttering a cry like a devil he 
jumped over him who was in his way. The latter 
seeing his rival conquer, lost his head and the rope; 
throwing down his stick he shot down quicker than 
it, like a whirl of arms and legs. The market and 
the folk were as the sea when the storm rusheth 
over it : everybody fled tumbling one over the other, 
and most there where the body was to strike the 

Zarathustra remained standing there and the body 
fell down just beside him, badly disfigured and broken, 
but not dead. After a while the consciousness of 
the fallen one coming back he saw Zarathustra kneel 
beside him. "What art thou doing there ?" he asked 
at last, " I knew it long ago that the devil would play 


me a trick. Now he draggeth me unto hell : art thou 
going to hinder him ? " 

" On my honour, friend," Zarathustra answered, 
"what thou speakest of doth not exist: there is no 
devil nor hell. Thy soul will be dead even sooner 
than thy body : henceforward fear nothing." 

The man looked up suspiciously : " If thou speakest 
truth," he said, "losing my life I lose nothing. Then 
I am not much more than an animal which by means 
of blows and titbits hath been taught to dance." 

" Not so," Zarathustra said ; " thou hast made 
danger thy calling, there is nothing contemptible in 
that. Now thou diest of thy calling : therefore shall I 
bury thee with mine own hands." 

Zarathustra having said thus the dying one made 
no answer, but moved his hand as though he sought 
Zarathustra's to thank him. 


Meanwhile the evening fell, and the market was 
hidden in darkness : the folk dispersed, for even curi- 
osity and terror grow tired. Zarathustra, however, sat 
beside the dead man on the ground absorbed in 
thought forgetting the time. But at last it was night, 
and a cold wind blew over the lonely one. Then 
Zarathustra rising said unto his heart : 

" Verily, a fine fishing was Zarathustra's to-day ! It 
was not a man he caught, but a corpse. 


Haunted is human life and yet meaningless : a 
buffoon may be fatal to it. 

I am going to teach men their life's significance : 
which is beyond-man, the lightning from the dark 
cloud of man. 

But still I am remote from them, my sense speaketh 
not to their sense. For men I am still a cross between 
a fool and a corpse. 

Dark is the night, dark are Zarathustra's ways. 
Come on, thou cold and stiff companion ! I carry 
thee to the place where I shall bury thee with my 


Having said thus unto his heart Zarathustra took 
the corpse on his back and started on his way. When 
he had not yet gone a hundred steps, somebody steal- 
ing close to him whispered into his ear and lo ! the 
speaker was the buffoon from the tower. " Depart 
from this town, O Zarathustra," he said; "too many 
hate thee here. There hate thee the good and just 
ones, and they call thee their enemy and despiser; 
there hate thee the faithful of the right belief, and 
they call thee a danger for the many. It was thy good 
fortune to be laughed at : and, verily, thou spakest 
like a buffoon. It was thy good fortune to associ- 
ate with the dead dog; by thus humiliating thyself 
thou hast saved thyself to-day. But depart from this 


town or to-morrow I jump over thee, a living 
over a dead one." Having so said the man dis- 
appeared, whilst Zarathustra went on through the 
dark lanes. 

At the gate of the town he met the grave-diggers. 
They flared their torch in his face and recognising 
Zarathustra mocked him. " Zarathustra is carrying off 
the dead dog : well that Zarathustra hath turned grave- 
digger! For our hands are too clean for this roast. 
Perhaps Zarathustra means to steal from the devil 
his bite ? Go on ! And much luck to the din- 
ner! We are afraid the devil will be a better thief 
than Zarathustra ! he stealeth both of them, he 
eateth both ! " And putting their heads together 
they laughed. 

Zarathustra saying no word in answer went his 
way. Journeying two hours through forests and 
swamps, he heard the hungry howling of the wolves 
and felt hungry himself. So he stopped at a lonely 
house in which a light was burning. 

" Hunger surpriseth me," said Zarathustra, " like a 
robber. Amid forests and swamps in the depth of 
the night my hunger surpriseth me. 

My hunger hath odd fancies. Frequently it appear- 
eth only after dinner, and to-day it did not appear all 
day : where was it ? " 

And then Zarathustra knocked at the door of the 
house. Very soon an old man came carrying a 


candle and asking : " Who cometh to me and mine 
evil sleep ? " 

"A living and a dead one," replied Zarathustra. 
" Give me to eat and to drink, I forgot it in the day- 
time. He who feedeth the hungry refresheth his 
own soul ; thus saith wisdom." 

The old man having gone off returned immediately 
offering Zarathustra bread and wine. "This is a 
bad quarter for hungry people," said he; "that is 
why I am staying here. Animal and man come to 
me, the hermit. But ask also thy companion to eat 
and drink ; he is much more tired than thou art." 
Zarathustra answered : " Dead is my companion ; I 
shall scarcely persuade him to do so." "That is no 
reason with me," said the old man crossly; "he who 
knocketh at my house must take whatever I offer 
him. Eat and farewell ! " 

Then Zarathustra walked two more hours and 
trusted the road and the light of the stars ; for he 
was accustomed to walk by night and liked to look 
into the face of all things asleep. But when the 
morning dawned Zarathustra found himself in a deep 
forest with no road visible. Then he laid the dead 
one in a hollow tree at his own head for he wished 
to defend him from the wolves and he laid him- 
self down on the ground and moss. And at once he 
fell asleep, with his body tired, but with his soul 



Long slept Zarathustra, not only the dawn passing 
over his face, but the morning also. At last, however, 
his eye opened : astonished Zarathustra looked into 
the forest and the stillness, astonished he looked into 
himself. Then quickly rising, like a mariner who sud- 
denly seeth land, he exulted : for he saw a new truth. 
And thus he then spake unto his heart : 

" A light hath arisen for me : companions I need, 
and living ones, not dead companions or corpses 
which I carry with me wherever I go. 

But living companions I need who follow me be- 
cause they wish to follow themselves and to the 
place whither I wish to go. 

A light hath arisen for me : Zarathustra is not to 
speak unto the folk, but unto companions ! Zarathus- 
tra is not to be the herdsman and dog of a herd! 

To entice many from the herd that is why I have 
come. Folk and herd will be angry with me : a robber 
Zarathustra wisheth to be called by herdsmen. 

Herdsmen I call them, but they call themselves 
the good and just. Herdsmen I call them, but they 
call themselves the faithful of the right belief. 

Lo, the good and just! Whom do they hate most? 
Him who breaketh to pieces their tables of values, 
the breaker, the criminal : but he is the creator. 

Lo, the faithful of all beliefs ! Whom do they hate 


most? Him who breaketh to pieces their tables of 
values, the breaker, the criminal : but he is the , 

Companions the creator seeketh and not corpses, 
neither herds nor faithful men. Such as will be 
creators with him the creator seeketh, those who 
write new values on new tables. 

Companions the creator seeketh, and such as will 
reap with him : for with him everything is ripe for 
harvest. But he lacketh the hundred sickles so that 
he teareth up the ears and is angry. 

Companions the creator seeketh, and such as know 
how to whet their sickles. Destroyers they will be 
called and despisers of good and evil. But they are 
those who reap and cease from labour. 

Such as will be creators with him Zarathustra 
seeketh, such as reap with him and cease from labour 
with him : what hath he to do with herds and herds- 
men and corpses ! 

And thou, my first companion, farewell ! Well I 
buried thee in thy hollow tree, well I hid thee from 
the wolves. 

But I part from thee, the time is past. Between 
dawn and dawn a new truth hath revealed itself to 

I am not to be a herdsman not yet a grave-digger. 
I am not even to speak unto the folk again. I have 
spoken unto a dead one for the last time. 


Those who are creators, who reap, who cease from 
labour I shall associate with. I shall show them the 
rainbow and all the degrees of beyond-man. 

I shall sing my song unto the hermits and those 
who are hermits in pairs. And the heart of him who 
hath ears for unheard things I shall make heavy 
with my happiness. 

Towards my goal I struggle, mine own way I go; 
I shall overleap those who hesitate and delay. Let 
my way be their destruction ! " 


Having said thus unto his heart when the sun was 
at noon Zarathustra suddenly looked upwards won- 
dering for above himself he heard the sharp cry of 
a bird. And lo ! an eagle swept through the air 
in wide circles, a serpent hanging from it not like a 
prey, but like a friend : coiling round its neck. 

"They are mine animals," said Zarathustra, and 
rejoiced heartily. 

"The proudest animal under the sun, and the 
wisest animal under the sun have set out to recon- 

They wished to learn whether Zarathustra still 
liveth. Verily, do I still live ? 

More dangerous than among animals I found it 
among men. Dangerous ways are taken by Zara- 
thustra. Let mine animals lead me ! " 


Having so said Zarathustra thought of the words 
of the saint in the forest and sighing he thus spake 
unto his heart : 

"Would I were wiser! Would I were wise from 
the root like my serpent! 

But I ask impossibilities. I ask my pride to be 
always the companion of my wisdom. 

And when once my wisdom leaveth me : alas ! it 
liketh to fly away ! Would that my pride would then 
fly with my folly ! " 

Thus began Zarathustra' s down-going. 



"Three metamorphoses of the spirit I declare unto 
you : how the spirit becometh a camel, the camel a 
lion, and the lion at last a child. 

There are many things heavy for the spirit, the 
strong spirit which is able to bear the load and in 
which reverence dwelleth : its strength longeth for 
the heavy and heaviest. 

What is heavy ? asketh the spirit which is able to 
bear the load, and kneeling down like a camel wish- 
eth to be well-laden. 

What is the heaviest, ye heroes ? asketh the spirit 
which is able to bear the load, that I may take it 
on me and rejoice in my strength. 

Is it not : to humiliate one's self in order to give 
pain to one's haughtiness ? To show forth one's 
folly in order to mock at one's wisdom ? 

Or is it : to part from our cause when it is cele- 
brating its victory ? To ascend high mountains in 
order to tempt the tempter ? 

Or is it: to live on the acorns and grass of know- 
ledge and to starve one's soul for the sake of truth ? 

Or is it : to be ill and send away the consolers 

2 5 


and make friends of deaf people who never hear 
thy wishes ? 

Or is it : to step into dirty water, if it be the 
water of truth, and not drive away the cold frogs 
and hot toads? 

Or is it : to love those who despise us and to shake 
hands with the ghost when it is going to terrify us ? 

All these heaviest things are taken upon itself by 
the spirit that is able to bear the load; like the 
camel which when it is laden hasteth to the desert, 
the spirit hasteth to its own desert. 

In the loneliest desert however cometh the second 
metamorphosis : there the spirit becometh a lion. 
Freedom it will take as its prey and be lord in its 
own desert. 

There it seeketh its last lord: to him and its last 
God it seeketh to be a foe, with the great dragon 
it seeketh to contend for victory. 

What is the great dragon which the spirit is no 
longer willing to call lord and God ? ' Thou shalt ' 
is the name of" the great dragon. But the lion's 
spirit saith : ' I will.' 

'Thou shalt' besets his way glittering with gold, 
a pangolin, on each scale there shineth golden 
'Thou shalt.' 

Values a thousand years old are shining on these 
scales, and thus saith the most powerful of all drag- 
ons : ' The value of all things is shining on me. 


All value hath been created, and all value created 
that is I. Verily, there shall be no more "I will." ' 
Thus saith the dragon. 

My brethren, wherefore is the lion in the spirit 
necessary ? Wherefore doth the beast of burden that 
renounceth and is reverent not suffice ? 

To create new values that even the lion is not 
able to do : but to create for itself freedom for new 
creating, for that the lion's power is enough. 

To create for one's self freedom and a holy Nay 
even towards duty: therefore, my brethren, the lion 
is required. 

To take for one's self the right to new values that 
is the most terrible taking for a spirit able to bear the 
load and reverent. Indeed, for it a preying it is and 
the work of a beast of prey. 

As its holiest it once loved ' thou shalt ' : now it 
must find illusion and arbitrariness even in the holiest, 
in order to prey for itself freedom from its love : the 
lion is required for that preying. 

But tell me, my brethren, what can the child do 
which not even the lion could ? Why must the prey- 
ing lion become a child also ? 

The child is innocence and oblivion, a new starting, 
a play, a wheel rolling by itself, a prime motor, a holy 

Ay, for the play of creating, my brethren, a holy 
asserting is wanted : it is its own will that the spirit 


now willeth, it is its own world that the recluse win- 
neth for himself. 

Three metamorphoses of the spirit I declare unto 
you : how the spirit becometh a camel, the camel a 
lion, and the lion at last a child." 

Thus spake Zarathustra when he stayed in the 
town which is called : The Cow of Many Colours. 


Some one praised a wise man to Zarathustra be- 
cause he was said to speak well of sleep and virtue 
and therefore to be very much honoured and re- 
warded. All young men were said to sit before his 
chair. Zarathustra went to him and sat among all 
the young men before his chair. And thus spake the 
wise man : 

" Honour and shame to sleep ! That is the first 
thing. And to go out of the way of all who sleep 
badly and are awake in the night! 

Even the thief is ashamed to disturb sleep : he al- 
ways stealeth gently through the night. But shame- 
less is the watchman of the night, shamelessly he 
weareth his horn. 

Sleeping is no small art : for that purpose one need- 
eth firstly to keep awake all day. 

Ten times a day thou must conquer thyself : that 
giveth a wholesome weariness and is poppy for the 

Ten times thou must reconcile thyself with thyself ; 
for resignation is bitterness and badly sleepeth he who 
is not reconciled. 



Ten truths a day thou must find : else thou seekest 
for truth even in the night, thy soul having remained 

Ten times a day thou must laugh and be gay : 
else thy stomach disturbeth thee in the night, that 
father of affliction. 

Few know that, but in order to sleep well one 
must have all virtues. Shall I bear false witness ? 
Shall I commit adultery? 

Shall I covet my neighbour's maid servant? All 
that would ill accord with good sleep. 

And even if one hath got all the virtues, one must 
know one more thing, to send unto sleep the virtues 
at the proper time. 

In order that they may not quarrel, the pretty little 
women ! And about thee, thou unhappy one ! 

Peace with God and thy neighbour: good sleep 
will have it so. And peace even with the neighbour's 
devil! Else it will haunt thee in the night. 

Honour and obedience to the magistrates, and even 
to crooked magistrates ! good sleep will have it so. Is 
it my fault that power liketh to walk on crooked legs ? 

He shall be called by me the best herdsman who 
leadeth his sheep unto the greenest meadow: that 
accordeth well with good sleep. 

I do not want many honours nor great treasures: 
that inflameth the milt. But one sleepeth badly with- 
out a good name and a small treasure. 


A small society is more welcome unto me than an 
evil one : it must however come and go at the proper 
time. That accordeth well with good sleep. 

I am also well pleased with the poor in spirit : they 
promote sleep. Blessed are they, especially if one 
always yieldeth to them. 

Thus the day passeth for the virtuous. When night 
cometh I take good care not to call sleep ! It liketh 
not to be called : sleep which is the master of 
virtues ! 

But I think of what I did and thought during the 
day. Ruminating I ask myself, patient as a cow : 
what were thy ten resignations ? 

And what were thy ten reconciliations, and the 
ten truths and the ten laughters with which my heart 
pleased itself ? 

Whilst I am meditating thus and rocked by forty 
thoughts, suddenly sleep seizeth me : the uncalled one, 
the master of virtues. 

Sleep knocking at mine eye it getteth heavy. Sleep 
touching my mouth it remaineth open. 

Verily, on soft soles it approacheth me, the dearest 
of thieves, stealing my thoughts : stupid I stand like 
this chair. 

But I do not stand long then : there I lie 

Having heard the wise man speak thus, Zarathustra 
laughed in his heart : for a light had arisen for him 
in the meantime. And thus he spake unto his heart : 


" A fool I consider that wise man there with his 
forty thoughts ; but I believe that he well knoweth 
how to sleep. 

Happy he who liveth near this wise man ! Such 
a sleep is infectious, even through a thick wall it is 

A charm liveth even in his chair. Nor did the 
youths sit in vain before the preacher of virtue. 

His wisdom is : to wake in order to sleep well. 
And verily, if life had no significance, and had I to 
choose nonsense, this nonsense would seem to be the 
worthiest to be chosen for me as well. 

Now I understand clearly, what once was sought 
for above all when teachers of virtue were sought. 
Good sleep was sought for and poppyhead-like virtues 
with it ! 

For all those belauded wise men of chairs, wisdom 
was sleep without dreams : they knowing no better 
significance of life. 

Even to-day there are a few extant who are like 
this preacher of virtues and not always so honest. 
But their time is past. And not much longer they 
stand : there they lie already. 

Blessed are the sleepy : for they shall soon drop 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Once Zarathustra threw his spell beyond man, 
like all back-worlds-men. Then the world seemed 
to me the work of a suffering and tortured God. 

A dream then the world appeared to me, and a 
God's fiction ; coloured smoke before the eyes of a 
godlike discontented one. 

Good and evil, and pleasure and pain, and I and 
thou coloured smoke it appeared to me before cre- 
ative eyes. When the creator wished to look away 
from himself he created the world. 

For the sufferer it is an intoxicating joy to look 
away from his suffering and lose himself. An intox- 
icating joy and a losing of one's self the world once 
appeared to me. 

This world, the ever imperfect, an image and an 
imperfect image of an eternal contradiction an in- 
toxicating joy to its imperfect creator: thus this 
world once appeared to me. 

Thus I threw my spell beyond man, like all back- 
worlds-men. Truly beyond man ? 

Alas ! brethren, that God whom I created was man's 
work and man's madness, like all Gods ! 
D 33 


Man he was, and but a poor piece of man and the 
I. From mine own ashes and flame it came unto 
me, that ghost, yea verily ! It did not come unto 
me from beyond ! 

What happened, brethren? I overcame myself, 
the sufferer, and carrying mine own ashes unto the 
mountains invented for myself a brighter flame. And 
lo ! the ghost departed from me ! 

Now to me, the convalescent, it would be suffer- 
ing and pain to believe in such ghosts : suffering it 
were now for me and humiliation. Thus I speak 
unto the back-worlds-men. 

Sorrow and weakness created all back-worlds ; and 
that short madness of happiness which only the most 
sorrowful experience. 

Weariness which, with one jump, with a jump of 
death, wanteth to reach the last, a poor ignorant 
weariness which is not even willing any more to will : 
it created all Gods and back-worlds. 

Believe me, my brethren ! It was the body which 
despaired of the body with the fingers of a befooled 
spirit it groped at the last walls. 

Believe me, my brethren ! It was the body which 
despaired of earth, it heard the womb of existence 
speak unto it. 

And there it yearned to get through the last walls 
with its head, and not with its head only beyond, 
to 'the other world.' 


But 'the other world' is carefully hidden from 
man, that brutish, inhuman world which is a heavenly 
nothing; and the womb of existence speaketh not 
unto man unless as man. 

Verily, difficult to be proved is all existence and 
difficult to be induced to speak. Tell me, brethren, 
hath not the oddest of all things been proved even 
best of all ? 

Ay, that I and the contradiction and confusion of 
the I speak most honestly of all existence, that creat- 
ing, willing, valuing I which is the measure and the 
value of things. 

And that most honest existence, that I which 
speaketh of the body and still willeth the body even 
when composing poetry and imagining and fluttering 
with broken wings. 

Even more honestly it learneth to speak, that I : 
and the more it learneth, the more words and 
honours for body and earth it findeth. 

A new pride I have been taught by mine I ; and 
this I teach men : no more to put their head into 
the sand of heavenly things, but to carry it freely, 
an earth-head that giveth significance unto earth ! 

A new will I teach men : to will that way which 
man hath gone blindly and to call it good and no 
longer to shirk aside from it like the sickly and 

The sickly and dying folk despised body and earth 


and invented the heavenly and the redeeming blood- 
drops : but even those sweet and gloomy poisons 
were borrowed from body and earth ! 

They sought to escape from their misery, and the 
stars were too remote for them. Then they sighed : 
Would that there were heavenly ways by which to 
steal into another existence and happiness ! they in- 
vented for themselves their byways and little bloody 
drinks ! 

And they professed to be beyond the reach of 
their body and this earth, the ungrateful ones. But 
to whom did they owe the convulsion and delight 
of their removal ! To their body and this earth. 

Kind unto the sick is Zarathustra. Verily, he is 
not angry at their ways of consolation and ingrati- 
tude. Would they were convalescent and conquering 
and creating a higher body for themselves ! 

Neither is Zarathustra angry with the convalescent 
one, if he looketh fondly back upon his illusion and 
at midnight stealeth round the grave of his God : but 
even his tears remain for me a disease and a sick 

Many sick folk were always among the makers of 
poetry and the god-passionate ; furiously they hate 
him who perceiveth and that youngest of virtues 
that is called honesty. 

Backward they ever gaze into the dark times : 
then, of course, illusion and belief were something 


else. Intoxication of reason was likeness unto God, 
and doubt was sin. 

Only too well I know those god-like ones : they 
wish to be believed in, and that doubt should be sin. 
Only too well I know, besides, what they themselves 
believe in most. 

Verily, not in back-worlds and redeeming blood- 
drops : but even they believe most in body, and their 
own body for them is the thing in itself. 

But a sickly thing it is for them : and fain they 
would leap out of their skin. Therefore they listen 
unto the preachers of death and themselves preach 

Rather listen, my brethren, unto the voice of the 
body that hath been restored unto health : it is a 
more honest and a purer voice. 

More honestly and purely the healthy body speak- 
eth, the perfect and rectangular : it speaketh of the 
significance of earth." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" It is unto the despisers of body that I shall 
say my word. It is not to re-learn and re-teach what 
I wish them to do ; I wish them to say farewell unto 
their own body and be dumb. 

' Body I am and soul ' thus the child speaketh. 
And why should one not speak like the children ? 

But he who is awake and knoweth saith : body I 
am throughout, and nothing besides; and soul is 
merely a word for a something in body. 

Body is one great reason, a plurality with one 
sense, a war and a peace, a flock and a herdsman. 

Also thy little reason, my brother, which thou 
callest ' spirit ' it is a tool of thy body, a little tool 
and toy of thy great reason. 

' I ' thou sayest and art proud of that word. But 
the greater thing is which thou wilt not believe 
thy body and its great reason. It doth not say ' I,' 
but it doth 'I.' 

What the sense feeleth, what the spirit perceiveth 
hath never its end in itself. But sense and spirit 
would fain persuade thee that they were the end of 
all things : so vain they are. 



Tools and toys are sense and spirit : behind them 
there lieth the self. The self also seeketh with the 
eyes of the senses, it also listeneth with the ears of 
the spirit. 

The self ever listeneth and seeketh : it compareth, 
subdueth, conquereth, destroyeth. It ruleth and is 
the ruler of the ' I ' as well. 

Behind thy thoughts and feelings, my brother, 
standeth a mighty lord, an unknown wise man whose 
name is self. In thy body he dwelleth, thy body he is. 

There is more reason in thy body than in thy best 
wis,dom. And who can know why thy body needeth 
thy best wisdom ? 

Thy self laugheth at thine I and its prancings : 
What are these boundings and flights of thought? it 
saith unto itself. A round-about way to my purpose. 
I am the leading-string of the I and the suggester 
of its concepts. 

The self saith unto the I : ' Feel pain here ! ' And 
there it suffereth and meditateth, how to get rid of 
suffering and that is why it shall think. 

The self saith unto the I : ' Feel lust here ! ' 
There it rejoiceth and meditateth how to rejoice 
often and that is why it shall meditate. 

I am going to say a word unto the despisers of 
body. Their contempt maketh their valuing. What 
is it that created valuing and despising and worth 
and will ? 


The creative self created for itself valuing and 
despising, it created for itself lust and woe. The 
creative body created for itself the spirit to be the 
hand of its will. 

Even in your folly and contempt, ye despisers of 
body, ye are serving your self. I say unto you : 
your self itself is going to die and turneth away 
from life. 

No longer is it able to do what it liketh best : to 
create something beyond itself. That it liketh best, 
that is its whole enthusiasm. 

But now it is too late for it to attain that purpose : 
your self seeketh to perish, ye despisers of body. 

Your self seeketh to perish and therefore ye are 
become despisers of body ! For no longer are ye 
able to create anything beyond yourselves. 

And therefore are ye now angry at life and earth. 
An unconscious envy is in the sidelong look of your 

I go not your way, ye despisers of body ! Ye are 
no bridges to beyond-man ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" My brother, when thou hast a virtue and it is 
thy virtue, thou hast it in common with nobody. 

It is true thou wilt call it by a name and pet it; 
thou wilt pull its ear and amuse thyself with it. 

And lo ! now thou hast its name in common with 
the folk and hast become folk and herd with thy 
virtue ! 

It would be better for thee to say : Unutterable 
and nameless is that which maketh my soul's pain 
and sweetness, and it is a hunger of mine intestines. 

Let thy virtue be too high for the familiarity of 
names : and if thou hast to speak of it, be not 
ashamed to stammer. 

Speak and stammer : ' That is my good, that love I, 
thus it pleaseth me entirely, thus alone will I the good. 

I do not will it as the law of a God, I do not 
will it as the statute or requirement of man : it shall 
not be a landmark for me to beyond-earths or para- 

It is an earthly virtue that I love : there is little pru- 
dence in it, and still less the reason common to all. 

But that bird hath built its nest with me : that is 



why I love and embrace it, now with me it sitteth 
on golden eggs.' 

Thus thou shalt stammer praising thy virtue. 

Once having passions thou calledst them evil. Now 
however thou hast nothing but thy virtues : they 
grow out of thy passions. 

Thou laidest thy highest goal upon these passions : 
then they became thy virtues and delights. 

And though thou wert from the stock of the 
choleric, or of the voluptuous, or of the religiously 
frantic, or of the vindictive : 

At last all thy passions grew virtues, and all thy 
devils angels. 

Once thou hadst wild dogs in thy cellar; but at 
last they changed into birds and sweet singers. 

Out of thy poisons thou brewedst a balsam for 
thee ; thou didst milk thy cow of sorrow now thou 
drinkest the sweet milk of its udder. 

And from this time forth, nothing evil groweth 
out of thee, unless it be the evil that groweth out of 
the struggle of thy virtues. 

My brother, if thou hast good luck, thou hast one 
virtue and no more : thus thou walkest more easily 
over the bridge. 

It is a distinction to have many virtues, but a hard 
lot ; and many having gone to the desert killed them- 
selves, because they were tired of being the battle 
and battlefield of virtues. 


My brother, are warfare and battle evil? But 
necessary is this evil, necessary are envy and mistrust 
and backbiting among thy virtues. 

Behold, how each of thy virtues is covetous for 
the highest: it longeth for thy whole spirit to be its 
herald, it longeth for thy whole power in wrath, love 
and hatred. 

Jealous is each virtue of the other, and a terrible 
thing is jealousy. Even virtues may perish from 

He who is encompassed by the flame of jealousy, 
at last, like the scorpion, turneth the poisonous sting 
towards himself. 

Alas, my brother, didst thou never see a virtue 
backbite and stab itself ? 

Man is a something that must be surpassed : and 
therefore thou shalt love thy virtues : for thou wilt 
perish from them." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Ye are not going to slay, ye judges and sacrificers, 
before the animal hath nodded. Behold, the pale 
criminal hath nodded : from his eye there speaketh 
the great contempt. 

' Mine I is a something that shall be surpassed : 
for me mine I is the great contempt of man : ' thus 
something speaketh out of that eye. 

His highest moment was when he judged himself : 
let not the sublime one fall back into his lower 
state ! 

There is no salvation for him who thus suffereth 
from himself unless it be speedy death. 

Your slaying, ye judges, shall be pity and not 
revenge. And whilst slaying take care to justify 
life itself ! 

It is not enough that ye should be reconciled 
unto him whom ye are slaying. Let your sorrow 
be love unto beyond-man : thus ye justify your still 

' Enemy ' ye shall say, but not ' wicked one ' ; 
' diseased one ' ye shall say, but not ' wretch ' ; 
'fool' ye shall say, but not 'sinner.' 



And thou, red judge, if thou wert to declare aloud 
all that thou hast done in thy thoughts, everybody 
would cry : ' Away with this filth and worm of 
poison ! ' 

But one thing is thought, another is deed, another 
is the picture of the deed. The wheel of reason roll- 
eth not between them. 

A picture made this pale man pale. Of the same 
growth with himself was his deed when he did it ; but 
when it was done, he could not bear the picture of it. 

He ever saw himself as the doer of one deed. 
Madness I call that : the exceptional was engrained 
upon his nature. 

The streak of chalk paralyseth the hen ; the stroke 
he struck paralysed his poor reason. Madness after 
the deed I call that. 

Listen, ye judges ! There is, besides, another mad- 
ness : it is before the deed. Alas, ye did not creep 
far enough into this soul ! 

Thus speaketh the red judge : ' Why did that crim- 
inal murder? He was going to rob.' But I say 
unto you : his soul asked for blood, not for prey : he 
was thirsting for the happiness of the knife ! 

But his poor reason understood not that madness 
and persuaded him. ' What is blood worth ! ' it said ; 
' wouldst not thou at least make a prey along with it ? 
take revenge along with it ? ' 

And he hearkened unto his poor reason : like lead 


its speech lay upon him, then he robbed when 
murdering. He did not like to be ashamed of his 

And now again lieth the lead of his guilt upon him, 
and again his poor reason is so chilled, so paralysed, 
so heavy. 

If he could but shake his head that burden would 
roll off. But who will shake that head ? 

What is this man ? A mass of diseases which 
through the spirit reach out into the world : there they 
are going to prey. 

What is this man ? A coil of wild serpents which 
seldom are at rest with each other thus singly they 
depart to search for prey in the world. 

Behold this poor body ! What it suffered and 
longed for, this poor soul interpreted : it interpreted it 
as a murderous lust and greediness for the happiness 
of the knife. 

He who is diseased now is surprised by the evil 
which is evil now. He willeth to cause pain with 
what causeth pain to him. But there have been other 
times and another evil and another good. 

Once doubt and the will unto self were evil. Then 
the diseased became heretics or witches : as heretics or 
witches they suffered and sought to cause suffering. 

This however entereth not into your ears; it is 
hurtful unto your good ones, ye say unto me. But 
what are your good ones worth unto me! 


Many things in your good ones cause loathsomeness 
unto me not what is evil in them. I even wish they 
had a madness from which they might perish like 
this pale criminal. 

Indeed I wish their madness could be named truth 
or faithfulness or justice : but they have their virtue to 
live long and in a miserable ease. 

I am a railing alongside the stream ; whoever is 
able to seize me, may seize me. Your crutch, how- 
ever, I am not." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Of all that is written I love only that which the 
writer wrote with his blood. Write with blood, and 
thou wilt learn that blood is spirit. 

It is not easily possible to understand other people's 
blood. I hate the reading idlers. 

He who knoweth the reader doth nothing more for 
the reader. Another century of readers and spirit 
itself will stink. 

That everybody is allowed to learn to read spoileth 
in the long run not only writing but thinking. 

Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now 
it is becoming mob. 

He who writeth in blood and apophthegms seeketh 
not to be read, but to be learnt by heart. 

In the mountains the shortest way is from summit 
to summit : but for that thou needst long legs. Apoph- 
thegms shall be summits, and they who are spoken 
unto, great ones and tall. 

The air rarefied and pure, danger near, and the 
spirit full of a gay wickedness : these agree well 

I desire to have goblins round me, for I am brave. 



Courage that dispelleth ghosts createth goblins for 
itself, courage desireth to laugh. 

I no longer feel as ye do : this cloud which I see 
beneath me, that blackness and heaviness at which I 
laugh, that is your thunder-cloud. 

Ye look upward when longing to be exalted. And 
I look downward because I am exalted. 

Which of you can at the same time laugh and be 
exalted ? 

He who strideth across the highest mountains 
laugheth at all tragedies whether of the stage or of 

Brave, unconcerned, scornful, violent, thus wisdom 
would have us to be : she is a women and ever 
loveth the warrior only. 

Ye say unto me : ' Life is hard to bear.' But for 
what purpose have ye got in the morning your pride 
and in the evening your submission ? 

Life is hard to bear. But do not pretend to be so 
frail ! We are all good he-asses and she-asses of 

What have we in common with the rose-bud that 
trembleth because a drop of dew lieth on its body ? 

It is true : we love life, not because we are accus- 
tomed to life, but because we are accustomed to love. 

There is always a madness in love. There is how- 
ever also always a reason in madness. 

And to my thinking as a lover of life, butterflies, 


soap-bubbles, and whatever is of their kind among 
men, know most of happiness. 

To see these light, foolish, delicate, mobile little 
souls flitting about that moveth Zarathustra to tears 
and to song. 

I could believe only in a God who would know 
how to dance. 

And when I saw my devil, I found him earnest, 
thorough, deep, solemn : he was the spirit of gravity, 
through him all things fall. 

Not through wrath but through laughter one slayeth. 
Arise ! let us slay the spirit of gravity ! 

I learned to walk : now I let myself run. I 
learned to fly: now I need no pushing to move me 
from the spot. 

Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself be- 
neath myself, now a God danceth through me." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


Zarathustra's eye had seen that a young man 
avoided him. And one night when walking alone 
through the hills round about the town that is 
called " the Cow of Many Colours " : behold, walking 
there he found that young man sitting with his 
back against a tree and gazing into the valley with 
a tired look. Zarathustra taking hold of the tree 
against which the young man was sitting spake 
thus : 

"If I wished to shake this tree with my hands I 
could not do so. 

But the wind which we do not see tormenteth and 
bendeth it wherever it listeth. By unseen hands we 
are bent and tormented worst." 

Astonished the young man rose and said : " I hear 
Zarathustra and was just thinking of him." Zara- 
thustra answered : 

" Wherefore dost thou fear ? It is with man as 
with the tree. 

The more he would ascend to height and light 
the stronger are his roots striving earthwards, down- 
wards, into the dark, the deep, the evil." 



"Ay, towards the evil!" cried the youth. "How 
was it possible for thee to discover my soul ? " 

Zarathustra said smiling : " Some souls will never 
be discovered, unless they be invented first." 

" Ay, towards the evil ! " repeated the youth. 

"Thou saidst the truth, Zarathustra. I do not 
trust myself any longer since I am striving upwards, 
neither doth anybody else trust me say, how is that ? 

I alter too quickly : my to-day refuteth my yester- 
day. I frequently overleap steps when I ascend 
no step pardoneth me for that. 

When I reach the summit I always find myself 
alone. Nobody speaketh unto me, the frost of sol- 
itude maketh me tremble. What do I seek on high? 

My contempt and longing grow together; the 
higher I ascend the more I despise him who as- 
cendeth. What seeketh he on high ? 

How ashamed I am of mine ascending and stum- 
bling ! How I mock at my vehement panting and 
puffing ! How I hate him who flieth ! How tired 
I am on high ! " 

Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra con- 
templating the tree by which they stood .spake 
thus : 

" This tree standeth lonely by the mountains ; it 
grew high beyond man and animal. 

And if it were to speak it would have nobody to 
understand it : so high hath it grown. 


Now, it is waiting and waiting, for what is it 
waiting, say? It dwelleth too close to the clouds. 
It is waiting I suppose for the first lightning ? " 

Zarathustra having so said the youth cried with 
vehement gesture. "Ay, Zarathustra, thou speakest 
truth. It was for my destruction that I longed 
when I was striving upwards, and thou art the light- 
ning I waited for ! Behold, what am I since thou 
hast appeared unto us ? It is the envy of thee which 
hath destroyed me ! " Speaking thus the youth wept 
bitterly. Zarathustra, however, put his arm round 
him and led him away with him. 

When they had walked a while together Zara- 
thustra thus began : 

" It teareth my heart. Better than thy words say 
it, thine eye telleth me all thy danger. 

Thou art not free yet, thou seekest freedom still. 
Weary with watching thou art made by thy seeking, 
and much too wakeful. 

Towards the free height thou art striving, for stars 
thy soul is thirsting. But thy bad instincts are also 
thirsting for freedom. 

Thy wild dogs seek freedom ; in their cellar they 
bark for lust when thy spirit seeketh to open all 

To me thou art still a prisoner meditating freedom 
for himself : alas ! ingenious becometh the soul of 
such prisoners, but guileful and bad also 


Even he who is freed in spirit must purify him- 
self. Much of prison and mould is still left in him : 
his eye needeth to be purified. 

Ay, I know thy danger. But by my love and hope 
I conjure thee : throw not away thy love and hope ! 

Noble thou feelest thyself, and that thou art noble 
feel even the others who are angry with thee and 
cast evil glances. Know that a noble one is in the 
way of all. 

A noble one is in the way of the good : and even 
if they call him a good one, by so doing they seek 
to put him aside. 

The noble one wisheth to create something new 
and a new virtue. The good one willeth that old 
things should be preserved. 

But that is not the danger of the noble one, to 
become a good one, but to become an insolent, a 
sneering one, a destroyer. 

Alas, I have known noble ones who lost their 
highest hope. And then they slandered all high 

Then they lived insolently in brief pleasure, and 
scarcely made any of their goals beyond the day. 

'Spirit is voluptuousness also'- said they. Then 
they broke the wings of their spirit : now it creepeth 
about and soileth whilst it gnaweth. 

Once they thought of becoming heroes : men of 


pleasure they are now. A hero is a grief and a hor- 
ror for them. 

But by my love and hope I conjure thee: throw 
not away the hero in thy soul ! Keep holy thy high- 
est hope!" 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"There are preachers of death, and the earth is 
full of those unto whom it is necessary to preach 
the abandonment of life. 

Full is earth of superfluous ones, spoiled is life by 
the much-too-many. Would they could be tempted 
away from this life by 'eternal life.' 

' Yellow ones ' the preachers of death are called 
or 'black ones.' I shall, however, show them unto 
you in other colours besides. 

There are the terrible who carry about within 
themselves a beast of prey and have no choice 
except voluptuousness or self-laceration. And even 
their voluptuousness is self-laceration. 

They have not even become human beings, these 
terrible ones : let them preach abandonment of life 
and themselves pass away ! 

There are the consumptive of soul. When scarce 
born they begin to die and long for the doctrine of 
weariness and renunciation. 

They would fain be dead, and we should approve 
of their will ! Let us beware lest we awaken these 
dead ones or damage these living coffins ! 



Whenever they meet with a diseased or an old 
man or a corpse they say : ' Life hath been refuted.' 

But only they themselves are refuted and their eye 
that seeth only that one face of existence. 

Wrapped in thick melancholy and hungry for those 
little accidents which produce death they wait with 
clenched teeth. 

Or: they reach out for sweetmeats and so doing 
mock their own childishness : they cling to the straw 
of their life and mock because they are hanging on 
a straw. 

Their wisdom is : 'A fool he who remaineth alive ; 
but to that extent we are fools ! And that is the 
greatest folly of life ! ' 

' Life is but suffering ' others say, and they do 
not lie. Well then, see that you die ! See to it that 
life which is but suffering come to an end. 

And let this be the teaching of your virtue : 
' Thou shalt kill thyself ! thou shalt steal thyself 
away ! ' 

' Lust is sin,' the preachers of death say, ' let 
us turn aside and produce no children ! ' 

'Giving birth is toilsome,' say the others, 'why 
give birth ? One giveth birth to unhappy ones 
only ! ' And they also are preachers of death. 

'Pity is needed' a third section say. 'Accept 
from me whatever I have ! Accept from me what- 
ever I am. The less am I bound unto life ! ' 


Were they piteous at heart, they would set the 
minds of their neighbours against life. To be evil 
that would be their proper goodness. 

They yearn to be rid of life : what care they if 
with their chains and gifts they tie others the 
faster ! 

Ye also to whom life is stormf ul labour and unrest : 
are ye not wearied of life ? Are ye not ripe for the 
sermon of death ? 

All of you to whom stormful labour is dear, and 
what is swift, what is new and what is strange are 
dear, ye bear yourselves ill; your industry is retreat 
and will to forget itself. 

If ye had more belief in life ye would yield your- 
selves the less to the moment. But ye have not 
enough substance within you to enable you to wait, 
not even to idle. 

Everywhere soundeth the voice of the preachers of 
death : and the earth is full of those unto whom it 
is necessary to preach death. 

Or : ' eternal life : ' that is the same unto me, if 
they only pass away quickly ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" We like neither to be spared by our best enemies, 
nor by those whom we love from our heart of heart. 
Let me tell you the truth ! 

My brethren in war ! I love you from my heart's 
heart. I am and was your like. And, besides, I am 
your best enemy. Therefore let me tell you the truth ! 

I know the hatred and envy of your heart. Ye 
are not great enough not to know hatred and envy. 
Then be great enough not to be ashamed of them ! 

And if ye cannot be saints of knowledge, at least 
be its warriors. They are the companions and pio- 
neers of the saints' holiness. 

I see many soldiers : would I could see many 
warriors ! ' Uniform ' they call what they wear : 
would it were not uniform what they hide under it ! 

Ye shall be like unto them whose eye is ever look- 
ing out for the enemy for your enemy. And with 
a few of you there is hatred at first sight. 

Ye shall seek your own enemy, ye shall wage your 
own war, and for your own thoughts. And if your 
thought be conquered, your honesty shall shout vic- 
tory over it. 



Ye shall love peace as a means to new wars, and 
the short peace better than the long. 

I do not advise you to work, but to fight. I do 
not advise you to conclude peace, but to conquer. 
Let your work be a fight, your peace a victory ! 

One cannot be silent and sit still unless one hath 
bow and arrow. Otherwise one talketh and quarrel- 
leth. Let your peace be a victory! 

Ye say, a good cause will hallow even war? I say 
unto you : a good war halloweth every cause. 

War and courage have done more great things 
than charity. Not your pity, but your bravery, hath 
hitherto saved those who had met with an accident. 

What is good ? ye ask. To be brave is good. 
Let the little girlies talk : 'To be good is what is 
sweet and touching at the same time.' 

They call you heartless : but your heart is genuine, 
and I love the shame of your heartiness. Ye are 
ashamed of your tide, and others are ashamed of 
their ebb. 

Ye are ugly ? Well then, my brethren ! Wrap the 
sublime round yourselves, the mantle of what is ugly ! 

And when your soul waxeth great, it waxeth 
haughty, and in your sublimity there is wickedness. 
I know you. 

In wickedness the haughty one and the weakling 
meet. But they misunderstand each other. I know 


Ye are permitted to have enemies only who are 
to be hated ; not enemies who are to be despised. Ye 
are to be proud of your enemy : then the success of 
your enemy is your success also. 

Rebellion, that is superiority in the slave. Let 
your superiority be obedience, your commanding even 
be an obeying! 

To a good warrior 'thou shalt' soundeth more 
agreeably than ' I will.' And all that will be dear 
unto you, ye shall yet be commanded. 

Let your love unto life be love unto your highest 
hope : and your highest hope the highest thought of 
your life ! 

Your highest thought, however, ye shall be ordained 
by myself and it is : man is a something that shall 
be surpassed. 

Thus live your life of obedience and war ! What 
is long life worth ! What warrior wisheth to be 
spared ! 

I do not spare you, I love you from the heart of 
my heart, my brethren in war ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Somewhere there are still peoples and herds, but 
not with us, my brethren : with us there are states. 

The state ? What is that ? Well ! now open your 
ears, for now I deliver my sentence on the death of 

The state is called the coldest of all cold monsters. 
And coldly it lieth ; and this lie creepeth out of its 
mouth : ' I, the state, am the people.' 

It is a lie ! Creators they were who created the 
peoples and hung one belief and one love over them ; 
thus they served life. 

Destroyers they are who lay traps for many, calling 
them the state : they hung a sword and a hundred 
desires over them. 

Wherever a people is left, it understandeth not 
the state but hateth it as the evil eye and a sin 
against customs and rights. 

This sign I show unto you : every people speaketh 
its own tongue of good and evil not understood by 
its neighbour. Every people hath found out for itself 
its own language in customs and rights. 

But the state is a liar in all tongues of good and 



evil; whatever it saith, it lieth, whatever it hath, it 
hath stolen. 

False is everything in it ; with stolen teeth it biteth, 
the biting one. False are even its intestines. 

Confusion of languages of good and evil. This 
sign I show unto you as the sign of the state. Verily, 
this sign pointeth to the will unto death ! Verily, it 
waveth hands unto the preachers of death ! 

Far too many are born : for the superfluous the 
state was invented. 

Behold, behold, how it allureth them, the much- 
too-many ! How it devoureth, cheweth, and masti- 
cateth them ! 

' On earth there is nothing greater than I ; God's 
regulating finger am I,' thus the monster howleth. 
And not only those with long ears and short sight 
sink upon their knees ! 

Alas, even within you, ye great souls, the state 
whispereth its gloomy lies ! Alas ! it findeth out the 
rich hearts which are eager to squander themselves ! 

Ay, it findeth out even you, ye conquerors of the 
old God ! Ye got wearied in the battle, and now 
your weariness serveth the new idol. 

The new idol would fain surround itself with 
heroes and honest men ! It liketh to sun itself 
in the sunshine of good consciences that cold 
monster ! 

It will give you anything if you adore it, the new 


idol: thus it buyeth for itself the splendour of your 
virtue and the glance of your proud eyes. 

With you the state will bait the hook for the much- 
too-many ! Ay, a piece of hellish machinery was in- 
vented then, a horse of death, rattling in the attire of 
godlike honours ! 

Ay, the death of many was invented then, death 
which praiseth itself as life : verily, a welcome service 
unto all preachers of death ! 

What I call the state is where all are poison- 
drinkers, the good and the evil alike. What I call 
the state is where all lose themselves, the good and 
the evil alike. What I call the state is where the 
slow suicide of all is called 'life.' 

Look at those superfluous ! They steal the works 
of inventors and the treasures of wise men : their 
theft they call education and for them everything 
turneth into disease and hardship ! 

Look at those superfluous ! Diseased they ever are, 
they vomit bile and call it newspaper. They devour 
but cannot digest each other. 

Look at those superfluous ! They acquire riches 
and become poorer thereby. They seek power, and 
first the crow-bar of power, much money these im- 
potent ones. 

See how they climb, these swift apes ! They climb 
over each other and thus drag themselves into the 
mud and depths. 


They all strive towards the throne : that is their 
madness, as though happiness were sitting on the 
throne ! Often mud sitteth on the throne ; often also 
the throne sitteth on the mud. 

Madmen they are all to my mind, and climbing 
apes, and over-hot. Ill smelleth to me their idol, that 
cold monster: ill smell they all to me, these idolaters. 

My brethren, will ye be suffocated in the damp of 
their mouths and desires ! Rather break the windows 
and jump into the open air ! 

Go, I pray, out of the way of the evil odour. Go 
away from the idolatry of the superfluous. 

Go, I pray, out of the way of the evil odour. Go 
away from the steam of these human sacrifices ! 

For great souls earth is yet open. For hermits, 
and hermits in pairs, many seats are yet empty round 
which floateth the odour of calm seas. 

For great souls a free life is still open. Verily, he 
who possesseth little is possessed still less : a modest 
poverty be praised ! 

Where the state ceaseth there beginneth that man 
who is not superfluous : there beginneth the song of 
the necessary, the melody that is sung once and can- 
not be replaced. 

Where the state ceaseth look there, I pray, my 
brethren ! Do you not see it, the rainbow and the 
bridges of beyond-man ? " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Fly, my friend, into thy loneliness ! I see thee 
stunned by the noise of the great men and pierced 
by the stings of the small. 

With thee forest and rock know how to be fitly 
silent. Be like the tree again which thou lovest, the 
tree with broad boughs : still and listening it hangeth 
over the sea. 

Where loneliness ceaseth, the market beginneth, and 
where the market beginneth, there begin also the noise 
of the great actors and the buzzing of the poisonous flies. 

In the world even the best things are useless with- 
out somebody to show them : great men are these 
showmen called by the folk. 

The folk little understand what is great, i.e., what 
createth. But they have eyes and ears for all show- 
men and actors of great things. 

The world revolveth round the inventors of new 
values : invisibly it revolveth. But the folk and 
glory revolve round actors : such is life. 

The actor hath spirit ; but little conscience of spirit. 
He always believeth in that by which he maketh 
others believe most, i.e., to believe in himself/ 



To-morrow he hath a new belief, and the day after 
to-morrow a still newer. Quick senses he hath, like 
the folk, and can change the scent quickly. 

To overthrow that meaneth for him : to prove. 
To drive mad that meaneth for him : to convince. 
And for him blood is the best of all reasons. 

A truth which slippeth only into sharp ears he 
calleth a lie and nothing. Verily, he believeth only 
in Gods that make a great noise in the world ! 

Full of noisy clowns is the market and the folk 
boast of their great men. Such for them are the 
masters of the hour. 

But the hour presseth them and they press thee. 
From thee also they seek a Yea or Nay. Alas ! wilt 
thou put thy chair between for and against! 

As for these unconditioned and pressing ones be 
thou, O lover of truth, without jealousy ! Never yet 
did truth hang on the arm of an unconditioned one. 

As for these sudden ones, return unto thy safety: 
it is only at the market that one is surprised by the 
question : Yea ? or Nay ? 

All deep wells get their experience slowly : they 
have to wait long before they know what hath fallen 
to the bottom of them. 

Away from the market and glory happeneth every- 
thing that is great: away from the market and glory 
have ever lived the inventors of new values. 

Fly, my friend, into thy loneliness : I see thee stung 


all over by poisonous flies. Fly where the rough, 
strong wind bloweth! 

Fly into thy loneliness ! Thou hast lived too close 
unto the small and miserable. Fly from their invisible 
revenge ! Against thee they are nothing but revenge. 

Lift no more thine arm against them ! Innumer- 
able are they; neither is it thy lot to be a fly-brush. 

Innumerable are these small and miserable ones ; 
and many a proud building the raindrops and weeds 
have destroyed. 

Thou art not a stone, but already thou hast been 
hollowed out by the many drops. Under the many 
drops thou wilt break into pieces and burst asunder. 

I see thee wearied by poisonous flies and blood 
drawn at a hundred spots ; and thy pride will not 
even be angry. 

In all innocence they seek to draw blood from thee, 
their bloodless souls crave for blood and therefore 
in all innocence they sting. 

But thou deep one, thou sufferest too greatly, even 
from small wounds ; and ere thou art healed, the same 
poisonous worm creepeth over thy hand. 

Thou art, I know, too proud to kill these dainty- 
mouthed. But take care that it be not thy fate to 
endure all their poisonous wrong. 

They also hum round thee with their praise : their 
praise is impudence. They seek to have nigh unto 
them thy skin and thy blood. 


They flatter thee like a God or devil ; they whimper 
before thee as before a God or devil. What matter ? 
Flatterers they are and whimperers, that is all. 

They also frequently present themselves unto thee 
as amiable. But that hath ever been the prudence of 
cowards. Ay, cowards are prudent. 

They think much about thee with their narrow 
souls, thou art ever suspected of them ! Whatever is 
much reflected upon, becometh suspected. 

They punish thee for all thy virtues. From the 
heart of their heart they only pardon thee thy mis- 

Because thou art tender and of a just mind thou 
sayest : ' Their small existence is not their fault.' 
But their narrow soul thinketh : ' Guilty is all great 

Even if thou art tender unto them they think that 
thou despisest them ; and they return thy benefits 
with secret harms. 

Thy unspoken pride is ever against their taste; 
they exult, when once thou art modest enough to 
be idle. 

Whatever we recognise in a man, we inflame hi 
him. Therefore beware of the small. 

They feel themselves to be small before thee, and 
their lowness glimmereth and gloweth in invisible 
revenge against thee. 

Sawest thou not how often they were silent when 


thou earnest nigh unto them, and how their power 
left them as the smoke leaveth a fire that is going 

Ay, my friend, thou art the bad conscience for thy 
neighbours ; for they are unworthy of thee. That is 
why they hate thee and would fain suck thy blood. 

Thy neighbours will always be poisonous flies. 
That which is great in thee that itself must make 
them still more poisonous and ever more like flies. 

Fly, my friend, into thy loneliness and where the 
rough, strong wind bloweth. It is not thy lot to be 
a fly-brush." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" I love the forest. It is bad to live in towns : too 
many of the lustful are there. 

Is it not better to fall into the hands of a murderer 
than into the dreams of a lustful woman ? 

And look at these men : their eye saith it they 
know of nothing better on earth than to lie by a 
woman's side. 

Mud is at the bottom of their soul; alas! if there 
is spirit in their mud ! 

Would ye were perfect, at least as animals are. 
But innocence is a necessary quality of animals. 

Do I counsel you to slay your senses ? I counsel 
the innocence of the senses. 

Do I counsel chastity ? Chastity is a virtue with 
some, but with most almost a vice. 

True, these abstain : but the she-dog of sensuality 
looketh with envy out of all they do. 

This beast and its no-peace followeth them even unto 
the heights of their virtues and into their cold spirit. 

And with what grace the she-dog of sensuality 
knoweth how to beg for a piece of spirit, if it be 
denied a piece of flesh ! 



Ye love tragedies and all that breaketh the heart 
to pieces. I am suspicious, however, of your she-dog. 

Ye have too cruel eyes and look wantonly for 
sufferers. Hath not your lust merely been disguised 
by calling itself pity ? 

This other parable I speak unto you : not a few 
who sought to drive out their devil, went themselves 
into the swine. 

He unto whom chastity is hard is to be counselled 
against it : in order that it may not become the way 
unto hell, i.e., to mud and concupiscence of the soul. 

Speak I of dirty things ? That is not the worst 
for me. 

Not when truth is dirty, but when it is shallow 
doth he who perceiveth dislike to step into its water. 

Verily, there are some who are chaste to the 
bottom : they are more tender in their hearts, they 
like to laugh more and oftener than ye do. 

They also laugh at chastity, asking : ' What is 
chastity ! ' 

Is chastity not folly ? But that folly hath come 
unto us, not we unto it. 

We offered that guest house and heart: now he 
liveth with us, let him stay as long as he liketh ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" ' There is always one too many about me ' thus 
thinketh the hermit. ' Always once one that maketh 
in the long run two.' 

I and me are always too eager in a conversation : 
how could it be borne if there were not a friend ? 

For the hermit a friend is always the third one : the 
third one is the cork that hindereth the conversation 
of the two from sinking into the depth. 

Alas ! there are too many depths for all hermits. 
That is why they long so much for a friend and his 

Our belief in others betrayeth what we would fain 
believe in ourselves. Our longing for a friend is our 

And often with love one only trieth to overleap envy. 
And frequently one assaileth and maketh another one's 
enemy in order to hide the fact of one's self being 

' Be at least mine enemy,' thus saith true reverence 
that dareth not ask for friendship. 

If one seek to have a friend one must also be ready 
to wage war for him : and in order to wage war one 
must be able to be an enemy. 



In one's friend one shall honour the enemy. Canst 
thou step close unto thy friend without going over to him ? 

In one's friend one shall have one's best enemy. 
Thou shalt be closest unto him with thy heart, when 
thou resistest him. 

Thou wouldst not wear clothes in the presence of thy 
friend. It is to honour thy friend that thou presentest 
thyself unto him as thou art ? But he therefore wisheth 
thee to go unto the devil. 

He who maketh no secret of himself shocketh : so 
much reason have ye to fear nakedness ! Ay, if ye 
were Gods, ye might well be ashamed of your clothing ! 

For thy friend thou canst not adorn thyself beauti- 
fully enough : for unto him thou shalt be an arrow and 
a longing towards beyond-man. 

Didst thou ever see thy friend asleep so as to learn 
what he is like ? What is thy friend's face at other 
times ? It is thine own face seen in a rough and 
imperfect looking-glass. 

Didst thou ever see thy friend asleep ? Wert thou 
not terrified at thy friend looking like that ? O my 
friend, man is a something that shall be surpassed. 

In rinding out and being silent the friend shall be 
master : thou must not wish to see everything. Thy 
dream shall betray unto thee what thy friend doth when 
he is awake. 

Let a finding out be thy sympathy : in order that 
first thou mayest know whether thy friend seeketh sym- 


pathy. Perhaps in thee he liketh the unmoved eye and 
the look of eternity. 

Let thy sympathy with thy friend be hidden under a 
hard shell, on it thou shalt break thy tooth in biting. 
Thus thy sympathy will have delicacy and sweetness. 

Art thou unto thy friend fresh air and solitude and 
bread and medicine? Many a one cannot loose his 
own chains and yet is a saviour unto his friend. 

Art thou a slave ? If thou be, thou canst not be a 
friend. Art thou a tyrant ? If thou be, thou canst not 
have friends. 

Far too long a slave and a tyrant have been hidden 
in woman. Therefore woman is not yet capable of 
friendship : she knoweth love only. 

In the love of woman there is injustice and blindness 
unto everything she loveth not. And even in the know- 
ing love of woman there is still, along with light, sur- 
prise and lightning at night. 

Yet woman is not capable of friendship : women are 
still always cats and birds. Or, in the best case, cows. 

Yet woman is not capable of friendship. But say, ye 
men, which of you is capable of friendship ? 

Oh ! for your poverty, ye men, and your avarice of 
soul ! As much as ye give unto your friend, I will give 
unto mine enemy, and will not become poorer thereby. 

There is comradeship : oh, that there were friend- 
ship ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Many lands were seen by Zarathustra, and many 
peoples : thus he discovered the good and evil of 
many peoples. No greater power on earth was 
found by Zarathustra than good and evil. 

No people could live that did not, in the first 
place, value. If it would maintain itself it must not 
value as its neighbour doth. 

Much that one people called good another called 
scorn and dishonour : thus I found it. Much I found 
named evil here, adored there with the honours of 
the purple. 

Never did one neighbour understand the other: 
his soul was ever astonished at his neighbour's self- 
deception and wickedness. 

A table of values hangeth over each people. Be- 
hold, it is the table of its resignations ; behold, it is 
the voice of its will unto power. 

That is laudable which is reckoned hard; what is 
indispensable and hard is named good ; and that 
which freeth from the extremest need, the rare, the 
hardest, that is praised as holy. 

Whatever enableth a people to dominate and con- 



quer and shine, unto the horror and envy of its 
neighbour, that is regarded as the high, the first, 
the standard, the significance of all things. 

Verily, my brother, if thou once recognisedst a 
people's need and land and sky and neighbour, thou 
mightest easily find out the law of its resignations, 
and why it climbeth on this ladder unto its hope. 

' Thou shalt ever be the first, standing out from the 
others : no one shall be loved by thy jealous soul 
unless thy friend ' that saying thrilled the soul of the 
Greek : then went he upon the path of his greatness. 

'To speak the truth and handle bow and arrow 
well ' that was at once loved and reckoned hard by 
the people from whom my name cometh the name 
which is at once dear and hard unto me. 

' To honour father and mother, and make their 
will thine unto the heart of thy heart : ' this table of 
resignations was hung up by another people which 
thereby became mighty and eternal. 

' To keep faith and, for the sake of faith, risk 
honour and blood in evil and dangerous affairs ' - 
thus teaching itself another people conquered itself, 
and thus conquering became pregnant and heavy 
with great hopes. 

Verily, men have made for themselves all their 
good and evil. Verily, they did not take it, they did 
not find it, it did not come down as a voice from 


Values were only assigned unto things by man in 
order to maintain himself he it was who gave signifi- 
cance to things, a human significance. Therefore he 
calleth himself ' man,' i.e., the valuing one. 

Valuing is creating : listen, ye who are creative ! 
To value is the treasure and jewel among all things 

Only by valuing is there value, without valuing the 
nut of existence would be hollow. Listen, ye who are 
creative ! 

Change of values, i.e. y change of creators ! He 
who is obliged to be a creator ever destroyeth. 

At first people only were creators, and not till long 
afterwards individuals ; verily, the individual himself 
is the latest creation. 

Once peoples hung up above them a table of good. 
Love that seeketh to rule, and love that seeketh to 
obey, together created such tables. 

Older than the pleasure received from the I is the 
pleasure received from the herd : and as long as the 
good conscience is called herd, only the bad con- 
science saith : ' I.' 

Verily, that cunning, unloving I that seeketh its 
own profit in the profit of many : that is not the 
origin of the herd, but its destruction. 

The loving and creative, they have always been 
the creators of good and evil. The flame of love and 
the flame of wrath glow in the names of all virtues. 


Many lands were seen by Zarathustra, and many 
peoples : no greater power was found on earth by 
Zarathustra than the works of the loving : good and 
evil are their names. 

Verily, a monster is this power of praising and 
blaming. Say, brethren, who will overthrow it ? 
Who will cast the fetters over its thousand necks? 

A thousand goals have existed hitherto, for a thou- 
sand peoples existed. But the fetter of the thousand 
necks is lacking, the one goal is lacking. Humanity 
hath no goal yet. 

But tell me, I pray, my brethren : if the goal be 
lacking to humanity, is not humanity itself lack- 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Ye throng round your neighbour and have fine 
words for that. But I tell you, your love for your 
neighbour is your bad love for yourselves. 

Ye flee from yourselves unto your neighbour and 
would fain make a virtue thereof; but I see through 
your ' unselfishness.' 

The thou is older than the I ; the thou hath been 
proclaimed holy, but the I not yet ; man thus thrusteth 
himself upon his neighbour. 

Do I counsel you to love your neighbour ? I rather 
counsel you to flee from your neighbour and to love 
the most remote. 

Love unto the most remote future man is higher 
than love unto your neighbour. And I consider love 
unto things and ghosts to be higher than love unto men. 

This ghost which marcheth before thee, my brother, 
is more beautiful than thou art. Why dost thou not 
give him thy flesh and thy bones ? Thou art afraid 
and flecst unto thy neighbour. 

Unable to endure yourselves and not loving your- 
selves enough : you seek to wheedle your neighbour 
into loving you and thus to gild you with his error. 



Would that ye could not endure any kind of your 
neighbours and their neighbours; were that so ye 
would need to create your friend and his enthusiastic 
heart out of yourselves. 

Ye invite a witness, if ye wish to speak well of your- 
selves, and having wheedled him into thinking well of 
you, ye think well of yourselves also. 

Not only doth he lie who speaketh contrary to his 
knowledge, but still more he who speaketh contrary to 
his not-knowledge. Thus ye speak of yourselves in 
company and deceive your neighbour as yourselves. 

Thus saith the fool : ' Intercourse with men spoileth 
character, especially if ye have none.' 

One goeth unto the neighbour because he seeketh 
himself, another because he wisheth to lose himself. 
Your bad love for yourselves maketh for yourselves 
a prison out of solitude. 

It is the more remote who pay for your love unto 
your neighbour; and whenever there are five of you 
together the sixth must die. 

I like not your festivals : I have found there too many 
actors, and the spectators also often behaved like actors. 

I teach you not the neighbour, but the friend. Let 
the friend be for you the festival of earth and a fore- 
taste of beyond-man. 

I teach you the friend and his too-full heart. But 
one must know how to be a sponge, if one would be 
loved by too-full hearts. 


I teach you the friend in whom there standeth the 
world finished, a husk of the good, the creative friend 
who hath ever a finished world in his gift. 

And as, for him, the world hath unrolled itself so it 
rolleth itself up again in rings being the growth of 
good out of evil, the growth of purposes out of chance. 

Let the future and the most remote be for thee 
the cause of thy to-day : in thy friend thou shalt 
love beyond-man as thy cause. 

My brethren, I counsel you not to love your neigh- 
bour, I counsel you to love those who are the most 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Wilt thou, my brother, go into solitude ? Wilt thou 
seek the way unto thyself ? Tarry a while and listen 
unto me. 

' He who seeketh is easily lost himself. All solitude 
is a crime,' thus say the herd. And for a long time 
thyself wert of the herd. 

The voice of the herd will sound even within thee. 
And whenever thou sayest : ' I no longer have the 
same conscience with you,' it will be a grief and pain. 

Behold, that pain itself was born of the same con- 
science. And the last gleam of that conscience still 
gloweth over thy woe. 

But wilt thou go the way of thy woe which is the 
way unto thyself ? If so, show me thy right and thy 
power so to do ! 

Art thou a new power and a new right ? A prime 
motor ? A wheel self-rolling ? Canst thou also compel 
stars to circle round thee ? 

Alas, there is much lust for height ! there are so 
many throes of the ambitious ! Show me that thou 
art not of those lustful or ambitious ! 

Alas, there are so many great thoughts which are no 



better than bellows : they inflate things and then make 
them emptier than ever. 

Thou callest thyself free? I wish to hear thy 
dominating thought, not that thou hast escaped a yoke. 

Art thou such a one as to be permitted to escape 
a yoke ? Many there are who threw away everything 
they were worth when they threw away their servitude. 

Free from what ? What doth that concern Zara- 
thustra ? Clearly thine eyes shall answer : free for 
what ? 

Canst thou give thyself thine evil and thy good, 
hanging thy will above thee as a law ? Canst thou 
be thine own judge and the avenger of thine own law ? 

Terrible it is to be alone with the judge and avenger 
of one's own law. Thus a star is cast out into the 
void and into the icy breath of solitude. 

To-day thou still sufferest from the many, thou : 
to-day thou hast still thy courage and thy hopes entire. 

But one day loneliness will weary thee, one day thy 
pride will writhe and thy courage gnash its teeth. 
One day thou wilt cry : ' I am alone.' 

One day thou wilt see no longer what is high for 
thee, and much too close what is low for thee ; and 
what is sublime for thee will make thee afraid as if 
it were a ghost. One day thou wilt cry: 'All is false.' 

There are feelings which tend to slay the lonely 
one ; if they do not succeed they must themselves die ! 
But art thou able to be a murderer ? 


Knowest thou, my brother, the word ' contempt ' ? 
And the agony it is for thy justice to be just unto 
those who despise thee? 

Thou compellest many to relearn about thee; that 
is sternly set down unto thine account by them. Thy 
drawing near unto them and yet passing they will 
never pardon. 

Thou goest beyond them : the higher thou risest, 
the smaller thou appearest unto the eye of envy. But 
he who flieth is hated the most. 

' How could ye be just unto me ! ' thou hast to 
say ' I choose your injustice as my portion.' 

Injustice and dirt are thrown after the lonely one; 
but, my brother, if thou wouldst be a star, thou must 
shine unto them none the less ! 

Beware of the good and just! They would fain 
crucify those who invent their own standard of virtue, 
they hate the lonely one. 

Beware also of sacred simplicity ! For it, nothing 
is sacred that is not simple ; it liketh to play with 
the fire of the stake. 

And beware of the attacks of thy love ! Too 
quickly the lonely one stretcheth out his hand unto 
him whom he meeteth. 

Unto some folk thou shouldst not give thy hand, 
but only thy paw, and I would that thy paw might 
have claws. 

But the worst enemy thou canst meet will always 


be thyself; thou waylayest thyself in caves and 

O lonely one, thou goest the way unto thyself! 
And thy way leadeth past thyself and thy seven 
devils ! 

As for thee thou wilt be a heretic, witch, fortune- 
teller, fool, sceptic, unholy one, villain. 

Thou must be ready to burn thyself in thine own 
flame : how canst thou become new, if thou hast not 
first become ashes ! 

O lonely one, thou goest the way of the creator : 
thou wilt create for thyself a God out of thy seven 
devils ! 

O lonely one, thou goest the way of the loving 
one : loving thyself thou despisest thyself as only the 
loving do. 

The loving one will create because he despiseth ! 
What knoweth he of love whose lot it hath not been 
to despise just what he loved ! 

My brother, go into thy solitude with thy love 
and thy creating ; and justice will not haltingly follow 
thee until long after. 

My brother, go into thy solitude with my tears. 
I love him who willeth the creating of something 
beyond himself and thus perisheth." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Why stealest thou so timidly through the dawn, 
Zarathustra ? and what hidest thou so carefully under 
thy mantle ? 

Is it a treasure that thou hast been given ? Or a 
child born unto thee ? Or dost thou now go thyself 
in the ways of thieves, thou friend of evil ? " 

* Verily, my brother ! " said Zarathustra, " it is a 
treasure that I have been given : a little truth it is I 

But it is unruly like a little child; and if I hold 
not its mouth, it bawleth as loud as it can. 

When I went on my way alone at the hour of sun- 
set this day I met an old little woman who thus spake 
unto my soul : 

' Much hath Zarathustra said unto us women, but 
never hath he spoken unto us of woman.' 

And I answered her : ' Of woman one must speak 
unto men only.' 

' Speak also unto me of woman,' she said ; ' I am 
old enough to forget it at once.' 

And I assenting thus spake unto the old little 
woman : 



' Everything in woman is a riddle, and everything 
in woman hath one answer : its name is child-bearing. 

Man is for woman a means : the end is always 
the child. But what is woman for man ? 

Two things are wanted by the true man : danger 
and play. Therefore he seeketh woman as the most 
dangerous toy. 

Man shall be educated for war, and woman for 
the recreation of the warrior. Everything else is folly. 

Over-sweet fruits the warrior liketh not. There- 
fore he liketh woman ; bitter is even the sweetest 

Woman understandeth children better than man 
cloth; but man is more child-like than woman. 

In the true man a child is hidden that seeketh to 
play. Up, ye women, reveal the child in man ! 

Let woman be a toy pure and delicate like a jewel, 
illuminated by the virtues of a world which hath not 
yet come. 

Let a ray of starlight shine in your love ! Let 
your hope be called : " Would that I might give birth 
to beyond-man ! " 

Let bravery be in your love ! With your love ye 
shall attack him who inspireth you with awe. 

Let your honour be in your love ! Little else doth 
woman understand of honour. But let it be your 
honour ever to love more than ye are loved, and 
never to be the second. 


Let man fear woman when she loveth : then she sac- 
rificeth anything, and nothing else hath value for her. 

Let man fear woman when she hateth : for in the 
heart of their heart, man is only evil, but woman is 

Whom doth woman hate the most? Thus spake 
the iron unto the loadstone : " I hate thee most because 
thou attractest, but art not strong enough to draw unto 

Man's happiness is : "I will." Woman's happiness 
is: "He will." 

/ " Behold, this moment the world hath become per- 
fect! " thus thinketh every woman, when she obeyeth 
from sheer love. 

And woman must obey and find a depth for her 
surface. Surface is woman's mood, a foam driven to 
and fro over a shallow water. 

But man's mood is deep, his stream roareth in 
underground caves : woman divineth his power, but 
understandeth it not.' 

Then the little old woman answered me : ' Many 
fine things hath Zarathustra said, and especially for 
those who are young enough. 

Strange it is, that Zarathustra little knoweth women, 
and yet is right regarding them ! Is that because 
with woman nothing is impossible ? 

And now take as my thanks a little truth. For 
I am old enough for that. 


Wrap it up and keep its mouth shut : or it will 
bawl as loud as it can, that little truth. ' 

'Give me, woman, thy little truth,' I said, and 
thus spake the little old woman : 

' Thou goest to women ? Remember thy whip ! ' ' 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


One day Zarathustra had fallen asleep under a 
fig-tree; it was hot, and he had folded his arras over 
his face. Then an adder came and bit his neck so 
that Zarathustra cried out with pain. Taking his 
arm from his face he looked at the serpent : which 
recognising Zarathustra' s eyes tried awkwardly to 
wriggle away. "Not so," said Zarathustra; "thou hast 
not yet accepted my thanks ! Thou wakedst me in 
due time, my way is long." " Thy way is short," said 
the adder, sadly; "my poison killeth." Zarathustra 
smiled : " When did ever a dragon die from a serpent's 
poison ? " he said. " But take back thy poison ! Thou 
art not rich enough to make me a gift of it." Then 
the adder again fell upon his neck and licked his wound. 

Zarathustra once telling this unto his disciples they 
asked : " And what, O Zarathustra, is the moral of 
thy tale ? " Zarathustra thus answered : 

"The destroyer of moral I am called by the good 
and just : my tale is immoral. 

But if ye have an enemy return not good for evil : 
for that would make him ashamed. But prove that he 
hath done you a good turn. 



And rather be angry than make him ashamed. And 
if ye be cursed I would have you not bless. Rather 
curse a little also ! 

And if a great wrong be done unto you straightway 
do five small ones in return ! A horrible sight is he 
who is oppressed by having done wrong unrevenged. 

Know ye that ? Divided wrong is half right. And 
he who can bear it, is to take the wrong on himself ! 

A small revenge is more human than no revenge at 
all. And if punishment be not, at once, a right and an 
honour of the offender, I like not your punishing. 

It is higher to own one's self wrong than to carry 
the point, especially if one be right. Only one must 
be rich enough for that. 

I like not your cold justice ; from the eye of your 
judges the executioner and his cold iron ever gaze. 

Say, where is justice to be found which is love with 
seeing eyes ? 

Arise ! invent that love which not only beareth all 
punishment, but all guilt as well ! 

Arise ! invent that justice which acquitteth everybody 
except the judge ! 

Desire ye to hear this also ? In him who wisheth 
to be just from the heart even a lie becometh a hu- 

But how could I be just from the heart? How could 
I give unto each what is his ? Let this be enough for 
me : I grive unto each what is mine. 


Lastly, my brethren, beware of doing wrong unto 
any hermit ! How could a hermit forget ? How could 
he retaliate? 

Like a deep well is a hermit. It is easy to throw a 
stone into it. But when it hath sunk unto the bottom 
who will get it out again ? 

Beware of offending a hermit. But, if ye do, well, 
kill him also ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" I have a question for thee alone, my brother : like 
the lead I heave that question over into thy soul that I 
may know how deep it is. 

Thou art young and wishest for child and marriage. 
But I ask thee : art thou a man who darest to wish for 
a child ? 

Art thou the victorious one, the self-subduer, the 
commander of thy senses, the master of thy virtues ? 
Thus I ask thee. 

Or, in thy wish, doth there speak the animal or 
necessity ? Or solitude ? Or discord with thyself ? 

I would that thy victory and freedom were longing 
for a child. Thou shalt build living monuments unto 
thy victory and liberation. 

Thou shalt build beyond thyself. But first thou 
must be built thyself square in body and soul. 

Thou shalt not only propagate thyself but propagate 
thyself upwards ! Therefore the garden of marriage 
may help thee ! 

Thou shalt create a higher body, a prime motor, a 
wheel of self-rolling thou shalt create a creator. 

Marriage : thus I call the will of two to create that 



one which is more than they who created it. I call 
marriage reverence unto each other as unto those who 
will such a will. 

Let this be the significance and the truth of thy 
marriage. But that which the much-too-many call 
marriage, those superfluous alas, what call I that ? 

Alas ! that soul's poverty of two ! Alas ! that soul's 
dirt of two ! Alas ! that miserable ease of two ! 

Marriage they call that; and they say marriage is 
made in heaven. 

Well, I like it not, that heaven of the superfluous ! 
Nay, I like them not, those animals caught in heavenly 
nets ! 

Far from me also be the God who cometh halting to 
bless what he did not join together. 

Laugh not at such marriages ! What child hath not 
reason to weep over its parents ! 

Worthy and ripe for the significance of earth 
appeared this man unto me, but when I saw his wife 
earth seemed unto me a madhouse. 

Yea, I wish the earth would tremble in convulsions 
whenever a saint and a goose couple. 

This one went out for truths like a hero and at last 
he secured a little dressed-up lie. He calleth it his 

That one was reserved in intercourse and chose fas- 
tidiously. But suddenly he for ever spoiled his com- 
pany : he calleth this his marriage. 


A third one looked for a servant with an angel's 
virtues. But suddenly he became the servant of a 
woman, and now it would be well if in consequence he 
became an angel. 

I found all buyers careful, having cunning eyes. 
But even the most cunning one buyeth his wife in a 

Many short follies that is what ye call love. 
And your marriage maketh an end of many short 
follies being one long stupidity. 

Your love unto woman, and woman's love unto 
man : alas ! would it were sympathy with suffering 
and veiled Gods ! But generally two animals find 
each other out. 

But even your best love is but an enraptured 
parable and a painful heat. It is a torch that is to 
beacon you unto higher ways. 

One day ye shall love beyond yourselves ! If so, 
first learn how to love. And hence ye have had to 
drink the bitter cup of your love. 

Bitterness is in the cup even of the best love : thus 
it bringeth longing for beyond-man : thus it bring- 
eth thirst unto thee, the creator ! 

Thirst unto the creator, an arrow and longing for 
beyond-man : say, my brother, is that thy will unto 
marriage ? 

Holy I call such a will and such a marriage." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Many die too late, and some die too early. Still 
the doctrine soundeth strange : ' Die at the right 

' Die at the right time : ' thus Zarathustra teacheth. 

Nay, he who hath never lived at the right time, 
hgw could he ever die at the right time? Would 
that he had never been born ! Thus I counsel the 

But even the superfluous put on airs about their 
dying, and even the hollowest nut wisheth to be 

Everyone taketh dying seriously, and death is not 
yet a festival. Not yet have men learnt how the finest 
festivals are consecrated. 

I show you the achieving death, which, for the 
living, becometh a sting and a pledge. 

The achieving one dieth his death victorious, sur- 
rounded by hopeful ones and such as pledge them- 

Thus should one learn to die; and there should 
be no festival, in which such a dying one did not 
consecrate the oaths of the living! 
H 97 


To die thus is the best; the second is however to 
die in the battle and spend a great soul. 

But equally hated by the fighting one and the 
victor is your grinning death, which stealeth nigh 
like a thief, and yet cometh as a master. 

I praise unto you my death, free death, which 
cometh because I will. 

And when shall I will ? He who hath a goal and 
an heir wisheth death to come at the right time for 
goal and heir. 

And out of reverence for goal and heir he will 
hang up no more withered wreaths in the sanctuary 
of life. 

Indeed, I would not be like the rope-makers. They 
draw out their cord longer and longer, going ever 
backwards themselves. 

Many a one, besides, waxeth too old for his truths 
and victories, a toothless mouth having no longer a 
right unto every truth. 

And whoever wisheth fame, must in time say fare- 
well unto honour, and exercise the difficult art of depart- 
ing at the right time. 

One must cease to be eaten, when one tasteth best ; 
they who would be loved for long know that. 

There are sour apples whose lot it is to wait till 
the last day of autumn. At the same time they wax 
ripe and yellow and wrinkled. 

With some the heart groweth old first, with others 


the spirit. And some are old in youth : but late youth 
remaineth long youth. 

Unto many life is a failure, a poisonous worm eat- 
ing through unto their heart. These ought to see to 
it that they succeed better in dying. 

Many never grow sweet, but putrefy even in sum- 
mer. It is cowardice that maketh them stick unto 
their branch. 

Much-too-many live, and much-too-long they stick 
unto their branches. Would that storm came to 
shake from the tree all that is putrid and gnawed by 
worms ! 

Would that preachers of swift death came! They 
would be the proper storms to shake the trees of life ! 
But I hear only slow death preached and patience 
with all that is 'earthly.' 

Alas ! ye preach patience with what is earthly ? 
What is earthly hath too much patience with you, ye 
revilers ! 

Too early died that Hebrew whom the preachers of 
slow death revere : and his dying-too-early hath been 
fatal for many since. 

When Jesus the Hebrew knew only the tears and 
melancholy of the Hebrew, together with the hatred 
of the good and just, then a longing for death sur- 
prised him. 

Would that he had remained in the desert and far 
away from the good and just ! Perhaps he would have 


learnt how to live and to love the earth and how to 
laugh besides ! 

Believe me, my brethren ! He died too early ; he 
himself would have revoked his doctrine, had he 
reached mine age ! Noble enough to revoke he was ! 

But he was still unripe. Unripely the youth loveth, 
and unripely also he hateth man and earth. Fettered 
and heavy are still his mind and the wings of his 

But in a man there is more of child than in a 
youth, and less of melancholy : he better understand- 
eth how to manage death and life. 

Free for death and free in death, a holy Nay-sayer, 
when there is no longer time to say yea: thus he 
understandeth how to manage death and life. 

That your dying may not be a blasphemy of man 
and earth, my friends, that is what I ask from the 
honey of your soul. 

In your dying your spirit and your virtue shall glow 
on, like the evening-red round the earth : or else your 
dying hath not succeeded well. 

Thus I would die myself, that ye friends for my 
sake may love the earth more than before; and I 
would become dust again, in order to have rest in 
earth which gave me birth. 

Of a truth, Zarathustra had a goal, he threw his 
ball : now, friends, be the heirs of my goal, I throw 
the golden ball unto you. 


Best of all, my friends, I like to see you throw the 
golden ball ! And thus I wait for a little while on 
earth : Excuse me ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


Zarathustra having taken leave of the town unto 
which his heart was attached and whose name is : 
the Cow of Many Colours many followed him who 
called themselves his disciples, and accompanied him. 
Having arrived at four crossways Zarathustra told 
them that now he wished to go alone; for he had a 
liking for going alone. But his disciples gave him 
at parting a stick on the golden handle of which a 
serpent curled round a sun. Zarathustra, pleased 
with the stick and supporting himself with it, spake 
thus unto his disciples : 

"Tell me: how came gold to be valued highest? 
Because it is uncommon and of little use and shining 
and chaste in its splendour; it ever spendeth itself. 

Only as an image of the highest virtue gold came 
to be valued highest. Gold-like shineth the glance of 
him who giveth. The glitter of gold maketh peace 
between moon and sun. 

Uncommon is the highest virtue, and of little use ; 
shining it is and chaste in its splendour : a giving 
virtue is the highest virtue. 

1 02 


Verily, I believe I have found you out, my dis- 
ciples : ye seek like me after giving virtue. What 
could ye have in common with cats and wolves ? 

Your thirst is to become sacrifices and gifts your- 
selves : hence it is that ye thirst to heap all riches 
into your soul. 

Unsatisfied your soul seeketh after treasures and 
trinkets because your virtue is ever unsatisfied in 
willing to give away. 

Ye compel all things to come unto you and into 
you, in order that they may flow back from your 
well as gifts of your love. 

Verily, such a giving love must become a robber 
as regardeth all values; but I call that selfishness 
healthy and holy : 

There is another selfishness, a very poor one, a 
starving one which ever seeketh to steal, the selfish- 
ness of the sickly, sickly selfishness. 

With a thief's eye it looketh at all that glittereth ; with 
the craving of hunger it measureth him who hath plenty 
to eat; and it ever stealeth round the table of givers. 

Disease speaketh in that craving, and invisible 
degeneration; of a sick body speaketh the thief-like 
craving of that selfishness. 

Tell me, my brethren : what regard we as the bad 
and the worst thing? Is it not degeneration 1 ? And 
we always suspect degeneration wherever the giving 
soul is lacking. 


Upwards goeth our way, from species to beyond- 
species. But a horror for us is the degenerating mind 
which saith : ' All for myself ! ' 

Upwards flieth our mind: it is an image of our 
body, an image of an exaltation. The names of virt- 
ues are images of such exaltations. 

Thus the body goeth through history, growing 
and fighting. And the spirit what is it unto the 
body ? The herald, companion, and echo of its fights 
and victories. 

All names of good and evil are images : they speak 
not out, they only beckon. A fool he who seeketh 
knowledge from them ! 

My brethren, give heed unto each hour, in which 
your spirit wisheth to speak in images : there is the 
origin of your virtue. 

There your body is exalted and risen ; with its de- 
light it ravisheth the spirit so that it becometh creative 
and valuing and loving and benefiting all things. 

When your heart overfloweth, broad and full like 
a stream, a blessing and a danger for those dwelling 
nigh : there is the origin of your virtue. 

When ye are raised above praise and blame, and 
your will seeketh to command all things, as the will 
of a loving one : there is the origin of your virtue. 

When ye despise what is agreeable and a soft bed, 
and know not how to make your bed far enough from 
the effeminate : there is the origin of your virtue. 


When ye will one will, and that end of all trouble 
is called necessity by you : there is the origin of your 

Verily, a new good and evil is your virtue verily, 
a new deep rushing, and the voice of a new well ! 

It is power, that new virtue ; one dominating thought 
it is, and round it a cunning soul : a golden sun, and 
round it the serpent of knowledge." 

Here Zarathustra was silent a while looking with 
love upon his disciples. Then he continued to speak 
thus with a changed voice. 

" Remain faithful unto earth, my brethren, with the 
power of your virtue ! Let your giving love and your 
knowledge serve the significance of earth ! Thus I 
beg and conjure you. 

Let it not fly away from what is earthly and beat 
against eternal walls with its wings ! Alas, so much 
virtue hath ever gone astray in flying ! 

Like me lead back unto earth the virtue which hath 
gone astray yea, back unto body and life : that it may 
give its significance unto earth, a human significance. 

Spirit and virtue also have hitherto gone astray 
and mistaken their goals in a hundred ways. Alas, 
in our body now all these illusions and mistakes still 
live. Body and will they have become there. 


Spirit and virtue also have lost themselves in 
seeking and erring hitherto. Yea, man hath been 
only an attempt. Alas, much ignorance and error 
have become body in us ! 

Not only the reason of millenniums but also their 
madness breaketh out in us. Dangerous it is to be 
an heir. 

Yet we fight step by step with the giant of chance ; 
over all humanity hitherto not-sense, the lack of sense, 
hath ruled. 

Let your spirit and your virtue serve the signifi- 
cance of earth, my brethren ; and let the value of all 
things be fixed anew by yourselves ! Therefore ye 
shall be fighters ! Therefore ye shall be creators ! 

Knowingly the body purifieth itself ; attempting 
with knowledge it exalteth itself; for him who per- 
ceiveth all instincts are proclaimed holy ; the soul of 
him who is exalted waxeth merry. 

Physician, heal thyself ; so thou healest also thy 
patient. Let that be his best health, that he may see 
with his own eyes him who hath made himself 

A thousand paths there are which have never yet 
been walked, a thousand healths and hidden islands 
of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered ever are man 
and the human earth. 

Awake and listen, ye lonely ones ! From the 
future winds are coming with a gentle beating of 


wings, and there cometh a good message for fine 

Ye lonely ones of to-day, ye who stand apart, ye 
shall one day be a people : from you who have chosen 
yourselves, a chosen people shall arise : and from it 

Verily, a place of healing shall earth become ! 
And already a new odour lieth round it, an odour 
which bringeth salvation and a new hope." 

Zarathustra having spoken these words was silent 
like one who hath not yet uttered his last word ; a 
long while he doubtfully balanced the stick in his 
hand. And last he spake thus, his voice having again 
changed : 

" Alone I now go, my disciples ! Ye go also, and 
alone. I would have it so. 

Verily, I counsel you : depart from me and defend 
yourselves from Zarathustra ! And better still : be 
ashamed of him. Perhaps he hath deceived you. 

The man of perception must not only be able to 
love his enemies, but also to hate his friends. 

One ill requiteth one's teacher by always remain- 
ing only his scholar. Why will ye not pluck at my 
wreath ? 

Ye revere me; but how if your reverence one day 


falleth down ? Beware of being crushed to death by 
a statue! 

Ye say ye believe in Zarathustra ? But what is 
Zarathustra worth ? Ye are my faithful ones : but 
what are all faithful ones worth ! 

When ye had not yet sought yourselves ye found me. 
Thus do all faithful ones ; hence all belief is worth so 

Now I ask you to lose me and find yourselves; not 
until all of you have disowned me, shall I return unto 

Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, I shall then seek 
my lost ones ; with another love I shall then love you. 

And one day ye shall have become friends of mine 
and children of one hope : then I shall be with you 
for a third time, in order to celebrate with you the 
great noon. 

And the great noon is when man standeth in the 
middle of his course between animal and beyond-man, 
and glorifieth his way unto the evening as his highest 
hope ; for it is the way unto a new morning. 

Then he who perisheth will bless himself as one who 
goeth beyond ; and his sun of knowledge will stand 
at noon. 

'Dead are all Gods: now we will that beyond-man 
live' Let this be one day your last will at the great 
noon !" 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" not until all of you have disowned 
me shall I return unto you. 

Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, 
I shall then seek my lost ones ; with an- 
other love I shall then love you." 

Zarathustra, I 
Of Giving Virtue 


After this Zarathustra went back into the moun- 
tains and the solitude of his cave and withdrew from 
men, waiting like a sower who hath thrown out his 
seed. But his soul was filled with impatience and 
longing for those he loved ; for he had still many gifts 
for them. For this is the hardest : to shut one's open 
hand because of love, and as a giver to preserve one's 

Thus months and years passed away with the lonely 
one, but his wisdom grew, and its abundance caused 
him pain. 

But one morning he awoke before dawn, meditated 
long on his couch, and at last spake unto his heart : 

"Why then was I terrified in my dream so that I 
awoke ? Did not a child come unto me carrying a 
looking-glass ? 

' O Zarathustra ' the child said unto me ' look at 
thyself in the looking-glass ! ' 

But when I looked into the looking-glass I cried 
aloud, and my heart was shaken. For in it I did not 
see myself, I saw a devil's grimace and scornful 

Verily, only too well I understand the sign and warn- 


ing of this dream ; my teaching is in danger : tares 
usurp the name of wheat. 

Mine enemies have grown strong and have distorted 
the face of my teaching, so that my dearest friends 
must be ashamed of the gifts I gave them. 

My friends are lost; the hour hath come for me to 
seek my lost ones." 

With these words Zarathustra started up, but not 
like one terrified seeking for air ; on the contrary, like 
a prophet and poet visited by the spirit. With aston- 
ishment his eagle and his serpent gazed upon him ; 
for a happiness to come lay on his countenance like 
the day-blush. 

" What hath happened unto me, mine animals ? " 
said Zarathustra. " Am I not changed ! Did not bliss 
come unto me like a stormwind ? 

Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things it will 
say : too young it is : have patience with it ! 

Wounded I am by my happiness. All sufferers 
shall be my physicians ! 

Again I am allowed to descend unto my friends as 
well as unto mine enemies ! Again Zarathustra is 
allowed to speak and give and do his kindest unto 
his dear friends. 

Mine impatient love floweth over in streams, down- 
wards towards east and west. Out of silent mountains 
and thunderstorms of pain my soul rusheth into the 


Too long have I yearned and looked into the dis- 
tance; too long hath solitude possessed me: thus I 
have got disaccustomed to silence. 

Mouth I have become all over, and the brawling of 
a brook rushing from high rocks: I will hurl my 
speech into the valleys. 

Let the stream of my love rush into what is pathless ! 
How should a stream not at last find its way into the 
ocean ! 

It is true, there is a lake within me, hermit-like, 
self-contented; but the stream of my love teareth it 
along into the ocean ! 

New paths I tread, a new speech cometh unto me ; 
like all creators I have grown weary of old tongues. 
My mind wisheth no more to walk on worn-out 

Too slowly all speech runneth for me. Into thy 
chariot, O storm, I leap. And even thee I will scourge 
with my malignity. 

Like a cry and a shouting of triumph I shall rush 
over wide seas until I find the blissful islands where 
my friends dwell 

And mine enemies among them ! How I now 
love everyone unto whom I may speak! Even mine 
enemies are part of my bliss. 

And when I mount my wildest horse my spear 
always helpeth me best to get on its back; it is the 
ever ready servant of my foot. 


The spear which I throw at mine enemies ! How 
grateful am I unto mine enemies that at last I may 
throw it! 

Too heavily charged was my cloud : between the 
laughters of lightnings I will throw hail-showers into 
the depths. 

Powerfully my breast will heave, powerfully it will 
blow its stormblast over the mountains: thus it will 
relieve itself. 

Verily, like a storm my happiness and my freedom 
come. But mine enemies shall believe that the evil 
one rageth over their heads. 

Yea, ye also will be terrified by my wild wisdom, 
my friends, and perhaps ye will flee away along with 
mine enemies. 

Oh ! that I were able to tempt you back with a 
herdsman's flute ! Oh ! that the lioness of my wis- 
dom would learn how to growl lovingly ! How many 
things we have already learnt together. 

My wild wisdom became pregnant on lonely moun- 
tains; upon rugged stones she bore her young, her 

Now she runneth strangely through the hard desert 
and seeketh, and ever seeketh for soft grass, mine 
old, wild wisdom. 

She would fain bed her dearest on the soft grass 
of your hearts, on your love, my friends ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"The figs fall from the trees, they are good and 
sweet; and while falling their red skin bursteth. A 
north wind I am unto ripe figs. 

Thus, my friends, those precepts fall unto your 
share like figs: now drink their juice and their sweet 
meat ! Autumn it is round about and clear sky and 

Behold what plenty is around us! And it is 
beautiful to gaze on remote seas from the midst of 

Once folk said 'God' when they gazed on remote 
seas, now I have taught you to say: ' Beyond-man.' 

God is a supposition ; but I would have your sup- 
posing reach no further than your creative will. 

Could ye create a God ? Then be silent concern- 
ing all Gods ! But ye could very well create beyond- 

Not yourselves perhaps, my brethren ! But ye 
could create yourselves into fathers and fore-fathers 
of beyond-man : and let this be your best creating ! 

God is a supposition ; but I would have your sup- 
posing limited by conceivableness. 



Could ye conceive a God ? But let this be for 
you will unto truth, that all be turned into something 
conceivable, visible, tangible for men ! Ye should 
mentally follow your own senses unto their ends. 

And what ye called world hath still to be created 
by you : it shall become your reason, your image, 
your will, your love itself! And, verily, it would be 
for your bliss, ye perceiving ones ! 

How could ye bear life without that hope, ye 
perceiving ones ? Ye could neither have been born 
into an inconceivable, nor into an unreasonable 

But let me reveal unto you my heart entirely, my 
friends : If there were Gods, how could I bear to be 
no God ! Consequently there are no Gods. 

True, I have drawn that conclusion, but now it 
draweth me. 

God is a supposition, but who could drink all the 
pain of that supposition without dying ? Is the creator 
to be bereaved of his belief, and the eagle of his flight 
into eagle-distances ? 

God is a thought which bendeth all that is straight, 
and turneth round whatever standeth still. How ? 
Should time have disappeared, and all that is perish- 
able be a mere lie ? 

To think this is a whirling and giddiness for human 
bones, and a vomiting for the stomach. The giddy- 
sickness I call it to imagine such things. 


Evil I call it and hostile unto human beings, all 
that teaching of the one thing, the full, the unmoved, 
the satisfied, the imperishable ! 

All that is imperishable is only a simile! And 
the poets lie too much. 

But for a simile the best images shall speak of time 
and becoming ; a praise they shall be and a justification 
of all perishableness ! 

Creating that is the great salvation from suffering, 
and an alleviation of life. But for the existence 
of the creator pain and much transformation are 

Yea, much bitter death must be in your life, ye 
creators ! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers of 
all perishableness. 

In order to be the child that is newly born, the 
creator must also be the child-bearing woman and 
the pain of the child-bearing woman. 

Verily, I have gone my way through an hundred 
souls and through an hundred cradles and birth-throes. 
Many times have I taken leave ; I know the heart- 
breaking last hours. 

But thus willeth my creative will my doom. Or 
to put it more candidly : such a doom is just willed 
by my will. 

All that feeleth within me suffereth and is in prison ; 
but my willing always approacheth me as my liberator 
and bringer of joy. 


Willing delivereth : that is the true doctrine of will 
and freedom thus ye are taught by Zarathustra. 

No-longer-willing, and no-longer-valuing, and no- 
longer-creating ! Oh, that that great weariness were 
for ever far from me ! 

Even in perception I feel only the lust of my will 
to procreate and grow ; and if there be innocence in 
my perception, it is because there is in it will unto 

This will enticed me away from God and Gods; 
for what could be created, if there were Gods ! 

But mine ardent will to create impelleth me unto 
man ever anew. Thus the hammer is impelled unto 
the stone. 

Alas, ye men, in the stone there sleepeth for me 
an image, the image of all mine images ! Alas, that 
it should have to sleep in the hardest and ugliest 
stone ! 

Now my hammer rageth cruelly against its prison. 
Pieces fly off from the stone : what doth it concern 
me ? 

I shall finish it. For a shadow came unto me 
the stillest and lightest of all things once came unto 
me ! 

The beauty of beyond-man came unto me as a 
shadow. Alas, my brethren ! What do Gods concern 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" My friends, a mocking speech hath come unto 
your friend : ' Behold Zarathustra ! Doth he not walk 
among us as among animals ? ' 

But it is better said thus : ' The perceiving one 
walketh among men as being animals.' 

Man himself is called by the perceiving one : the 
animal with red cheeks. 

How did he get them ? Was it not because he had 
occasion so often to be ashamed? 

my friends ! Thus speaketh the perceiving 
one : ' Shame, shame, shame, that is the history of 
man ! ' 

That is why the noble one maketh it his law never 
to make anybody ashamed. He maketh it his law to 
be ashamed in presence of all that suffereth. 

Verily, I like them not, the merciful who are blessed 
in their mercy. Too much they are lacking in the 
sense of shame. 

If I must be pitiful, I do not wish to be called 
so ; and if I am so, I like to be so at a distance. 

1 also like to veil my head and flee before being 
recognised ; and thus I ask you to do, my friends ! 



Would that my fate would always lead across my 
path such as are free from sorrow like you, and such 
as those with whom I may share hope and meal and 

Verily, now and then I did something for sufferers, 
but I always seemed unto myself to do something better 
when I learned how to enjoy myself better. 

Since man came into existence he hath had too little 
joy. That alone, my brethren, is our original sin ! 

And when we learn how to have more joy we best 
get disaccustomed to cause pain and to invent pain unto 

Therefore I wash my hand which helped the sufferer : 
therefore I even wipe my soul. 

For on account of the sufferer's shame I was 
ashamed, when seeing him suffer; and when I helped 
him, I strongly offended his pride. 

Great obligations do not make grateful but revenge- 
ful ; and when a small benefit is not forgotten it turneth 
into a gnawing worm. 

' Be shy of accepting ! Distinguish by accepting ! ' 
Thus I counsel those who have nothing to give away. 

But I am a giver : willingly I give, as a friend unto 
friends. But strangers and paupers may themselves 
pluck the fruit from my tree : thus it causeth less shame. 

Beggars should be abolished utterly ! Verily, we are 
angry when giving them anything and are angry when 
not giving. 


And likewise the sinners and bad consciences! Be- 
lieve me, my friends : remorse of conscience teacheth to 

But the worst are petty thoughts. Verily, it is still 
better to act wickedly than to think pettily. 

True ye say : ' The pleasure derived from petty wick- 
edness saveth us many a great wicked deed.' But here 
folk should not try to save. 

Like an ulcer is an evil deed : it itcheth and scratch- 
eth and breaketh forth, it speaketh honestly. 

' Behold, I am disease ' saith the evil deed : that is its 

But the petty thought resembleth a fungus : it creep- 
eth and cowereth and wisheth to be nowhere until 
the whole body is rotten and withered with small fungi. 

Unto him who is possessed by the devil I say this 
word into his ear : ' It is better for thee to bring up thy 
devil. Even for thee there is a way unto greatness ! ' 

Alas, my brethren ! Of everybody one knoweth a 
little too much. And many a one becometh transparent 
for us ; but for that reason we are by no means able to 
penetrate him. 

It is difficult to live with men, because silence is so 

And we are most unjust not unto him who is contrary 
to our taste, but unto him who doth not concern us in 
any way. 

But if thou hast a suffering friend, be a couch for his 


suffering, but a hard bed, as it were, a field-bed : thus 
thou wilt be of most use for him. 

And if a friend doth wrong unto thee, say : ' I forgive 
thee what thou didst unto me, but that thou didst so 
unto thyself, how could I forgive that ? ' 

Thus speaketh all great love : it even overcometh for- 
giveness and pity. 

One must keep fast one's heart. For if one letteth 
it go, how soon the head runneth away ! 

Alas ! where in the world have greater follies hap- 
pened than with the pitiful ? And what in the world 
hath done more harm than the follies of the pitiful ? 

Woe unto all loving ones who do not possess an 
elevation which is above their pity ! 

Thus the devil once said unto me : ' Even God hath 
his own hell : that is his love unto men.' 

And recently I heard the word said : ' God is dead ; 
he hath died of his pity for men.' 

Beware of pity : a heavy cloud will one day come 
from it for men. Verily, I understand about weather- 
forecasts ! 

But remember this word also : All great love is lifted 
above all its pity, for it seeketh to create what it loveth ! 

' Myself I sacrifice unto my love, and my neighbour 
as myself,' thus runneth the speech of all creators. 

But all creators are hard." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


One day Zarathustra made a sign unto his disciples 
and spake unto them these words : 

" Here are priests. And though they are mine 
enemies, pass them quietly and with sleeping sword ! 

Among them also there are heroes; many of them 
have suffered too much. Hence they try to make 
others suffer. 

t Evil friends they are : nothing is more revengeful 
than their submissiveness. And easily he defileth him- 
self who toucheth them. 

But my blood is kindred with theirs; I would have 
my blood honoured even in theirs." 

And when they had passed Zarathustra was attacked 
by pain. And when he had fought with his pain a little 
while, he thus began to speak: 

" I am sorry for these priests. They are contrary 
unto my taste, but that is a small matter unto me since 
I am dwelling among men. 

But I suffer and have suffered with them : prisoners 
they are for me, and branded ones. He whom they 
call Saviour put them into fetters : 

Into the fetters of false values and illusory words! 
Oh, that someone would save them from their Saviour! 



Once when the sea tossed them to and fro they 
believed they had landed on an island; but, behold, 
it was a slumbering monster ! 

False values and illusory words : these are the 
worst monsters for mortals, in them doom slum- 
bereth and waiteth long. 

But at last it cometh and waketh and eateth and 
devoureth whatever made its tabernacle upon it. 

Oh, look at the tabernacles made by these priests ! 
Churches they call their sweetly smelling dens. 

Oh, that falsified light, that heavy air ! This place 
where the soul is not allowed to fly upwards unto 
its height ! 

But thus its faith commandeth ! ' On your knees 
up the stairs, ye sinners ! ' 

Verily, I would rather see the shameless than the 
sprained eyes of their shame and devotion ! 

Who created for himself such dens and stairs 
of penitence ? Was it not such as sought to hide 
themselves and were ashamed of the clear sky ? 

And not until the clear sky shall again look through 
broken ceilings and down on grass and red poppy 
growing by broken walls, shall I again turn my 
heart unto the places of this God. 

They called God what was opposite and painful 
unto them : and, verily, there was much of the heroic 
in their worship ! 

And they did not know how to love their God 
otherwise than by fixing man unto the cross. 


As corpses they meant to live, in black they draped 
their corpse : even in their words I smell the evil sea- 
soning of the deadhouse. 

And he who liveth nigh unto them, liveth nigh unto 
the black ponds from which the toad singeth its song 
in sweet melancholy. 

In order that I might learn to believe in their 
Saviour they ought to sing better songs, and his dis- 
ciples ought to look saved-like. 

I would fain see them naked : for beauty alone 
should preach penitence. But who in the world is 
persuaded by that disguised affliction ? 

Verily, even their saviours have not come from 
freedom and the seventh heaven of freedom ! Verily, 
they themselves have never walked on the carpets of 
knowledge ! 

The mind of these saviours consisted of voids, but 
into every void they had put their illusion, their stop- 
gap whom they called God. 

In their pity their mind was drowned, and when 
they swelled, and swelled over from pity, at the sur- 
face there always swam a great folly. 

Eagerly and with much crying they drove their 
flock over their wooden bridge, as if there were only 
a single bridge into the future! Verily, those herds- 
men also were of the sheep ! 

Petty intellects and comprehensive souls these 
herdsmen had: but, my brethren, what small terri- 


tones hitherto have been even the most comprehen- 
sive souls ! 

Signs of blood have been written by them on the 
way they went, and it was taught by their folly that 
truth is proved by blood. 

But blood is the worst of all witnesses for truth ; 
blood even poisoneth the purest teaching and turneth 
it into delusion and hatred of hearts. 

And when a man goeth through fire for his teaching 
what is proved thereby ? Verily, it is more when 
one's own teaching springeth from one's own burning. 

A sultry heart and a cool head, where these hap- 
pen to meet, the blusterer ariseth, the ' saviour.' 

Verily, there have been much greater ones and 
more highly born ones than those whom folk call 
saviours, those ravishing blusterers. 

And ye, my brethren, if ye ever wish to find the 
way unto freedom, ye must be saved by much greater 
ones than any saviours have been. 

Never yet beyond-man existed. I have seen them 
both naked, the greatest and the smallest man. 

Much too like are they still unto each other. 
Verily, even the greatest one I found to be much 
too human ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"With thunder and heavenly fire-works one hath to 
speak unto languid and sleeping senses. 

But the voice of beauty speaketh gently ; it stealeth 
only into the sprightliest souls. 

To-day my shield trembled and laughed gently : 
that is the holy laughter and trembling of beauty. 

Over you, ye virtuous, my beauty laughed to-day. 
And thus came its voice unto me : ' They wish to be 

paid in addition ! ' 

Ye wish to be paid in addition, ye virtuous ! Ye 
wish reward for virtue, heaven for earths, and eternity 
for your to-day? 

And now ye are angry at my teaching that there 
is no rewarder and pay-master. Nay, I do not even 
teach that virtue is its own reward. 

Alas ! That is my trouble : reward and punishment 
have been deceitfully put into the foundation of things 

and now even into the foundation of your souls, 
ye virtuous ! 

But like a boar's snout my word shall harrow the 
foundation of your souls. I would have you call me 
a plough. 



All the secrets of your foundation shall be brought 
unto light ; and when ye will lie in the sun harrowed 
and crushed, your lie will be separated from your truth. 

For this is your truth : ye are too cleanly for the filth 
of the words : revenge, punishment, reward, retaliation. 

Ye love your virtue as the mother doth her child ; 
but did anybody ever hear of a mother wishing to be 
paid for her love ? 

It is your dearest self, your virtue. The thirst of 
the ring is within you. To reach itself again, for that 
purpose every ring struggleth and turneth. 

And every work of your virtue resembleth a star 
extinguished. Its light is still on the way and travel- 
leth on. When will it have ceased to be on the way ? 

Thus the light of your virtue is still on the way, even 
when the work hath been done. Be it forgotten or 
dead, its beam of light still liveth and travelleth. 

That your virtue is your self, and not anything 
strange, a skin, a mantle : that is the truth from the 
foundation of your soul, ye virtuous ! 

But to be sure there are men who call the agony 
under the whip virtue ; and ye have listened too much 
unto their crying ! 

And there are others who call the putrefaction of 
their vices virtue ; and when their hatred and their 
jealousy for once stretch their limbs, their justice 
awakeneth and rubbeth its sleepy eyes. 

And there are others who are drawn downwards : 


they are drawn by their devils. But the deeper they 
sink the more ardently gleameth their eye and the 
desire for their God. 

Alas, their crying also hath reached your ears, ye 
virtuous : ' What I am not, that, that is for me God and 
virtue ! ' 

And there are others who walk about heavily and 
creaking like waggons carrying stones downhill. They 
talk much of dignity and virtue, their skid they call 
virtue ! 

And there are others who are wound up like every- 
day watches ; they go on ticking and wish that ticking 
to be called virtue. 

Verily, these are mine entertainment. Wherever I 
find such watches I shall wind them up with my mock- 
ing; and they shall even click at that. 

And others are proud of their handful of justice, and 
for its sake commit outrages on all things, so that the 
world is drowned with their unjustice. 

Alas ! How badly the word ' virtue ' cometh from 
their mouth ! And when they say : ' I am just,' it 
soundeth almost like: 'I am just revenged!' 

With their virtue they try to scratch out the eyes of 
their enemies ; they only extol themselves in order to 
debase others. 

And again there are others who sit in their mud-bath 
and thus speak out of the bulrushes : ' Virtue that 
meaneth to sit still in the mud-bath. 


We bite nobody and go out of the way of him who 
seeketh to bite ; and in all things we have the opinion 
we are given.' 

And again there are such as love gestures and think 
virtue is a kind of gesture. 

Their knees always adore, and their hands are a 
praise of virtue, but their heart knoweth nothing of it. 

And again there are such as deem it virtue to say : 
' Virtue is necessary ' ; but in reality they only believe 
police to be necessary. 

And many a one who cannot see what is sublime in 
men, calleth it virtue to see too well what is base in 
them : thus he calleth his evil eye virtue. 

And some wish to be edified and lifted up, and call 
it virtue; and others wish to be cast down and call 
it virtue also. 

And in this way almost all believe they share in 
virtue. At any rate everybody would have himself to 
be an expert as to 'good' and 'evil.' 

Zarathustra hath not come to say unto all these liars 
and fools : ' What know ye of virtue ! What could ye 
know of virtue ! ' 

But that ye, my friends, may become weary of the 
old words which ye have learnt from fools and liars. 

Weary of the words ' reward,' ' retaliation,' ' punish- 
ment,' 'revenge in justice' 

Weary of saying : ' That an action is good, springeth 
from its being unselfish.' 


Alas, my friends ! That your self be in your action 
as a mother is in the child, that shall be for me your 
word of virtue ! 

Verily, I have taken from you perhaps an hundred 
words and the dearest playthings of your virtue ; and 
now ye are angry with me as children are. 

They played on the seashore, then came a wave 
and swept all their toys away into the depth : now 
they cry. 

But the same wave shall bring them new playthings 
and spread before them new coloured shells. 

Thus they will be comforted ; and like them ye also, 
my friends, shall have your comforts and new col- 
oured shells ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Life is a well of lust ; but wherever the rabble 
drink also, all wells are poisoned. 

I am fond of all things cleanly ; I like not to see 
the grinning mouths and the thirst of the unclean. 

They have cast their eye down into the well ; now 
their repugnant smile shineth up out of the well. 

The holy water hath been poisoned by their con- 
cupiscence ; and when calling their foul dreams lust 
they have poisoned words as well. 

Angry waxeth the flame when they lay their 
damp hearts nigh the fire ; the spirit itself bubbleth 
and smoketh wherever the rabble approach the fire. 

Sweetish and much too mellow waxeth the fruit 
in their hand ; shaky and withered at the top waxeth 
the fruit-tree from their look. 

And many a one who turned away from life only 
turned away from the rabble ; he cared not to share 
with them well and fire and fruit. 

And many a one who went into the desert and 
suffered from thirst v/ith the camels, merely cared 
not to sit round the cistern with dirty camel-drivers. 

And many a one who came along like a destroyer 
and a hail-storm unto all corn-fields, merely intended 



to put his foot into the jaws of the rabble and thus 
stuff their throat. 

And this was not the bit which choked me most : 
to know that life itself requireth hostility and death 
and crosses of torture; 

But once I asked and was almost suffocated by 
my question : ' What ? doth life also require rabble ? 

Are poisoned wells required, and stinking fires, 
and foul dreams, and mites in the bread of life ? ' 

Not my hatred but my loathing gnawed hungrily 
at my life ! Alas, I frequently wearied of the spirit 
when I found the rabble also full of spirit ! 

And I turned my back upon the rulers, when I saw 
what is now called ruling : to chaffer and barter about 
power with the rabble ! 

Among nations with foreign tongues I lived with 
closed ears, in order that the tongue of their chaffer- 
ing might remain unknown unto me, and their bar- 
tering about power. 

And holding my nose I angrily walked through 
all yesterday and to-day. Verily, after writing rabble 
badly smelleth all yesterday and to-day! 

Like a cripple who became deaf and blind and 
dumb, thus I lived long in order not to live with the 
rabble of power, writing, and lust. 

With difficulty my mind went up stairs, and cau- 
tiously ; alms of lust were its refreshments ; for the 
blind man, life crept leaning on a stick. 


What happened unto me ? How did I free myself 
from loathing ? How became mine eye younger ? 
How did I reach in flying the height where no 
longer the rabble sit at the well ? 

Did my very loathing give me wings and powers 
divining wells ? Verily, I had to fly unto the very 
highest to rediscover the well of lust ! 

Oh, I found it, my brethren ! How on the very 
height the well of lust floweth for me ! And there 
is a life, in the drinking of which no rabble share ! 

Almost too violently for me thou flowest, well of 
lust ! And frequently thou emptiest the cup again 
by trying to fill it ! 

And yet I must learn to approach thee more 
modestly. Much too violently my heart floweth tow- 
ards thee 

My heart on which my summer burneth, the short, 
hot, melancholy, all-too-blessed summer ! How doth 
my summer-heart long for thy coolness ! 

Past is the hesitating trouble of my spring ! Past 
is the wickedness of my flakes of snow in June ! 
Wholly I became summer and a summer-noon ! 

A summer on the very height with cold wells and 
blessed stillness ! Oh come, my friends, that the 
stillness may become still more blessed ! 

For this is our height and our home. Too highly 
and too steeply we here stay for all the impure and 
their thirst. 


Just cast your pure eyes into the well of my lust, 
ye friends ! How could it become muddy therefrom ! 
Laughing with its purity it shall receive you. 

On the tree of the future we build our nest. Eagles 
are to bring food with their beaks unto us lonely ones ! 

Verily, no food, in the eating of which impure ones 
would be allowed to share ! They would fancy they 
ate fire and burned their mouths with it. 

Verily, here we have no homes ready for impure 
ones. Unto their bodies our happiness would mean 
a cave of ice, and unto their minds as well ! 

And like strong winds we will live above them, 
companions of eagles, companions of the snow, com- 
panions of the sun ; thus live strong winds. 

And like a wind I shall one day blow amidst 
them and take away their breath with my spirit ; 
thus my future willeth it. 

Verily, a strong wind is Zarathustra for all low 
lands ; and his enemies and everything that spitteth 
and bespattereth he counselleth with such advice: 
' Take care to spit against the wind ! ' ' 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Behold, this is the cave of the tarantula ! Wouldst 
thou see itself ? Here hangeth its net. Touch it so as 
to make it tremble. 

There the tarantula cometh willingly. Welcome, 
tarantula ! Black on thy back is thy triangle and 
mark ; besides I know what is in thy soul. 

Revenge is in thy soul : wherever thou bitest, black 
canker waxeth ; with revenge thy poison maketh the 
soul turn round. 

Thus I speak unto you in a parable, ye who make 
the souls turn round, ye preachers of equality! For 
me ye are tarantulae and underhand revengeful ones ! 

But I shall bring unto the light your hiding places. 
Therefore I laugh into your face my laughter of the 

Therefore I tear at your net so that rage may 
tempt you out of your cave of lying and your revenge 
may jump forth from behind your word 'justice.' 

To save man from revenge, that is for me the 
bridge towards the highest hope and a rainbow after 
long thunderstorms. 



But the tarantulae would have it otherwise. 'Call 
it very justice, to fill the world with the thunderstorms 
of our revenge,' thus they speak unto each other. 

' Revenge will we take, and aspersion will we cast 
on all who are not like us ' this the tarantulae-hearts 
pledge unto themselves. 

And 'will unto equality that itself shall in the 
future become the name of virtue; and we will raise 
our clamour against everything that hath power ! ' 

Ye preachers of equality, the tyrant-insanity of im- 
potency thus crieth out of yourselves for ' equality.' 
Your most secret tyrant-aspirations thus disguise them- 
selves under words of virtue ! 

Surly presumption, hidden envy, perhaps the pre- 
sumption and envy of your fathers : as a flame and 
insanity of revenge they break forth from you. 

What the father kept close is uttered by the son ; 
and frequently I found the son to be the revealed 
secret of the father. 

They resemble the enthusiastic ; but it is not the 
heart that rouseth their enthusiasm, but revenge. 
And when they grow sharp and cold, it is not spirit, 
but envy that maketh them sharp and cold. 

Their jealousy even leadeth them into the paths 
of thinkers ; and it is the mark of their jealousy that 
they ever go too far, so that their weariness hath at 
last to lie down on the snow to sleep. 

From each of their laments soundeth revenge, in 


each of their praises is a sore ; and to be judges ap- 
peareth unto them to be bliss. 

But thus I counsel you, my friends: Mistrust all 
in whom the impulse to punish is powerful ! 

They are folk of bad kin and descent. Out of their 
countenances look the hang-man and blood-hound. 

Mistrust all those who talk much of their justice ! 
Verily, it is not honey merely that their souls lack. 

And if they call themselves 'the good and just' 
forget not that to be Pharisees they lack nothing but 


My friends, I like not to be confounded with and 
taken for a wrong one. 

There are some that preach my doctrine of life 
but at the same time are preachers of equality and 

If they speak favourably of life although they sit 
in their cave, these poisonous spiders, and have turned 
away from life : it is because they wish to cause pain. 

They intend to cause pain unto those who now 
have power ; for with them the sermon of death is 
most at home. 

Were it otherwise the tarantulae would teach other- 
wise. Once it was just they who were the best calum- 
niators of the world and the best burners of heretics. 

I do not wish to be confounded with, and mistaken 
for these preachers of equality. For within me justice 
saith : ' Men are not equal.' 



Neither shall they become so! For what would 
be my love for beyond-man if I spake otherwise? 

On a thousand bridges and gang-ways they shall 
throng towards the future, and ever more war and 
inequality shall be set up among them. Thus my great 
love maketh me speak ! 

Inventors of images and ghosts they shall become 
in their hostilities, and with their images and ghosts 
they shall fight against each other the supreme 
battle ! 

Good and evil, rich and poor, high and low, and 
alt the names of values: they shall be weapons and 
clashing signs that life always hath to surpass itself 


Upwards it striveth to build itself with pillars and 
stairs, life itself : into far distances it longeth to gaze 
and outwards after blessed beauties therefore it 
needeth height! 

And because it needeth height it needeth stairs 
and contradiction between stairs and those rising be- 
yond them ! To rise striveth life and to surpass itself 
in rising. 

And now behold, my friends ! Here where the cave 
of the tarantula is, the ruins of an old temple rise, 
do ye gaze there with enlightened eyes! 

Verily, he who here once made his thoughts tower 
upwards in stone, like the wisest one he knew the 
secret of all life ! 


That even in beauty there is fight . and inequality 
and war over power and superiority : he teacheth it 
unto us in the clearest parable. 

How divinely here vaults and arches break each 
other in a struggle ! How with light and shadow they 
strive contrary unto each other, the divinely striving 
ones ! 

Let our enemies also be thus secure and beautiful, 
my friends ! Divinely we will strive contrary to each 
other ! 

Alas ! There the tarantula bit me, mine old enemy ! 
Divinely, securely, and beautifully it bit my finger ! 

'There must be punishment and justice' thus it 
thinketh. ' Not for nothing shall he sing here songs 
in honour of hostility ! ' 

Yea, it hath taken its revenge ! And alas, now 
it will with revenge even make my soul turn round ! 

But that I may not turn round, my friends, tie me 
fast unto this pillar ! I will rather be a stylite than 
a whirlpool of revengefulness ! 

Verily, no whirlwind or eddy-wind is Zarathustra; 
and if he be a dancer, he will never be a tarantula- 
dancer! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Ye have saved the folk and the superstition of 
the folk, all ye famous wise men, and not truth ! 
And for that very reason ye were revered. 

And for the same reason your unbelief was en- 
dured because it was a joke and a round-about-way 
unto the folk. Thus the lord alloweth his slaves to 
bustle about and is amused with their overflowing 

But what is hated by the folk as a wolf is by the 
dogs is the free spirit, the enemy of all fetters, the 
not-adorer, he who liveth in the woods. 

To hunt him up from his hiding place that hath 
always been called by the folk : ' the sense for what 
is right ' : against him they still bait their hounds 
with the sharpest teeth. 

' For truth is there because the folk are there ! 
Alas ! Alas ! for them who seek ! ' Thus it hath 
sounded at all times. 

Ye tried to help your people to feel themselves 
right in their reverence. That was what ye called 
' will unto truth,' ye famous wise men ! 



And for ever your heart said unto itself : ' From the 
folk I have sprung; thence also sprang the voice of 

Stiff necks and wisdom ye always had, like the asses, 
when ye were the folk's advocates. 

And many a mighty one who wished to drive well 
with the folk, harnessed in front of his horses a little 
ass, a famous wise man. 

And now I wish, ye famous wise men, ye would 
finally and entirely throw off the hide of the lion! 

The hide of the beast of prey, the many-coloured, 
and the shaggy hair of the explorer, seeker, conqueror ! 

Alas ! in order to make me believe in your ' truth- 
fulness,' ye would require first to break your revering 

Truthful thus I call him who goeth into godless 
deserts and hath broken his revering heart. 

In yellow sand burnt by the sun, it is true, he leer- 
eth thirstily at the islands full of wells where living 
things rest under dark trees. 

But his thirst persuadeth him not to become like 
these comfortable ones ; for where oases are, there are 
idols also. 

Hungry, violent, lonely, godless thus the lion's will 
willeth itself. 

Free from the happiness of slaves ; saved from 
Gods and adorations ; fearless and fear-inspiring ; great 
and lonely ; this is the will of the truthful one. 


In the desert at all times the truthful have lived, 
the free spirits, as the masters of the desert; but in 
towns live the well-fed, famous wise men, the draught- 

For, being asses, they always draw the folk's cart ! 

Not that therefore I was angry with them ; but as 
serving ones they are regarded by me, and as har- 
nessed ones, even if they glitter in golden harness. 

For often they were good servants and worth their 
hire. For thus speaketh virtue : ' If thou must be a 
servant, seek him unto whom thy service will be of the 
mt>st use ! 

The spirit and virtue of thy master shall grow in 
that thou art his servant. Thus thou thyself wilt grow 
with his spirit and his virtue ! ' 

And, verily, ye famous wise men, ye servants of the 
folk ! Ye yourselves have grown with the folk's spirit 
and virtue and the folk through you! I say so in 
your honour ! 

But folk ye remain for me even in your virtues, 
folk with dim-sighted eyes, folk that know not what 
spirit is ! 

Spirit is that life which itself cutteth into life. By 
one's own pain one's own knowledge increaseth ; 
knew ye that before ? 

And the happiness of the spirit is this : to be anointed 
and consecrated by tears as a sacrificial animal; 
knew ye that before? 


And even the blindness of the blind and his seeking 
and fumbling shall bear witness as unto the power of 
the sun, into which he gazed ; knew ye that before ? 

And the perceiver shall learn to build with moun- 
tains. Little it is for the spirit to remove mountains ; 
- knew ye that before ? 

Ye only see the sparks of the spirit; ye know not 
the anvil it is, nor the cruelty of its hammer ! 

Verily, ye know not the pride of the spirit ! Still 
less would ye endure the modesty of the spirit, if it 
once would utter it. 

Neither have ye ever before been allowed to throw 
your spirit into a pit of snow. Ye are not hot enough 
for that. Thus ye know not, either, the ravishings of 
its coldness. 

But in every respect ye make yourselves too famil- 
iar with the spirit ; and ye have frequently made out 
of wisdom an alms-house and infirmary for bad poets. 

Ye are not eagles. Thus ye have never experienced 
the happiness in the terror of the spirit. And he who 
is not a bird shall not dwell over abysses. 

Ye are for me lukewarm ; but every deep percep- 
tion floweth cold. As cold as ice are the innermost 
wells of the spirit, a refreshment for hot hands and 

Decently there ye stand, and stiff, and with a stiff 
back, ye famous wise men ! Ye are not driven by 
any strong wind or will. 


Saw ye never a sail go over the sea, rounded and 
blown up and trembling with the violence of the 
wind ? 

Like that sail, trembling with the violence of the 
spirit, my wisdom goeth over the sea my wild wis- 

But ye servants of the folk, ye famous wise men, 
how could ye go with me ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Night it is: now talk louder all springing wells. 
And my soul is a springing well. 

Night it is : only now all songs of the loving 
awake. And my soul is the song of a loving one. 

Something never stilled, something never to be 
stilled is within me. It longeth to give forth sound. 
A longing for love is within me, that itself speaketh 
the language of love. 

Light I am : would that I were night ! But it is 
my loneliness, to be girded round by light. 

Oh, that I were dark and like the night! How 
would I suck at the breasts of light ! 

And I would bless even you, ye small, sparkling 
stars and glow-worms on high, and be blessed by 
your gifts of light! 

But in mine own light I live, back into myself 
I drink the flames that break forth from me. 

I know not the happiness of the receiver. And 
often I dreamt that stealing was needs much sweeter 
than receiving. 

It is my poverty that my hand never resteth from 
giving; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes and 
the illuminated nights of longing. 



Oh, unblessedness of all givers ! Oh, obscuration 
of my sun ! Oh, longing for longing ! Oh, famished 
voracity in the midst of satisfaction ! 

They take things from me : but do I touch their 
soul? There is a gulf between giving and taking; 
and the smallest gulf is the most difficult to bridge 

A hunger waxeth out of my beauty: I would 
cause pain unto those unto whom I bring light ; I 
would fain bereave those I gave my gifts to. Thus 
am I hungry for wickedness. 

Taking back my hand when another hand stretch- 
eth out for it; hesitating like the waterfall that hesi- 
tateth when raging down thus am I hungry for 

Such revenge is invented by mine abundance; 
such insidiousness springeth from my loneliness. 

My happiness of giving died from giving; my 
virtue became weary of itself from its abundance ! 

He who always giveth is in danger to lose his sense 
of shame ; he who always distributeth getteth hard 
swellings on his hand and heart from distributing. 

Mine eye no longer floweth over from the shame 
of the begging ones ; my hand hath become too 
hard to feel the trembling of full hands. 

Whither went the tear of mine eye and the down 
of my heart ? Oh, solitude of all givers ! Oh, silence 
of all lighters ! 


Many suns circle round in empty space : unto all 
that is dark they speak with their light, unto me 
they are silent. 

Oh, that is the enmity of light against what 
shineth ! Without pity it wandereth on its course. 

Unfair towards what shineth in the heart of its 
heart, cold towards suns, thus walketh every sun. 

Like the storm the suns fly on their courses ; that 
is their walking. They follow their inexorable will ; 
that is their coldness. 

Oh, it is only ye, ye dark ones, ye of the night 
who create warmth out of what shineth ! Oh, it is 
only ye who drink milk and refreshment from the 
udders of light ! 

Alas, there is ice round me, my hand burneth it- 
self when touching what is icy ! Alas, there is thirst 
within me that is thirsty for your thirst! 

Night it is : alas, that I must be a light ! And 
a thirst for what is of the night ! And solitude ! 

Night it is : now, like a well, my longing breaketh 
forth from me. I am longing for speech. 

Night it is : now talk louder all springing wells. 
And my soul is a springing well. 

Night it is : only now all songs of the loving 
awake. And my soul is the song of a loving one." 

Thus sang Zarathustra. 


One night Zarathustra went through the forest 
with his disciples, and when seeking for a well, 
behold ! he came unto a green meadow which was 
surrounded by trees and bushes. There girls danced 
together. As soon as the girls knew Zarathustra, 
they ceased to dance; but Zarathustra approached 
them with a friendly gesture and spake these words : 

" Cease not to dance, ye sweet girls ! No spoil- 
sport hath come unto you with an evil eye, no 
enemy of girls. 

I am the advocate of God in the presence of the 
devil. But he is the spirit of gravity. How could 
I, ye light ones, be an enemy unto divine dances ? 
Or unto the feet of girls with beautiful ankles? 

True, I am a forest and a night of dark trees, 
but he who is not afraid of my darkness, findeth 
banks full of roses under my cypresses. 

And I think he will also find the tiny God whom 
girls like best. Beside the well he lieth, still with 
his eyes shut. 

Verily, in broad daylight he fell asleep, the slug- 
gard! Did he perhaps try to catch too many butter- 
flies ? 



Be not angry with me, ye beautiful dancers, if I 
chastise a little the tiny God! True, he will prob- 
ably cry and weep; but even when weeping he 
causeth laughter! 

And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a 
dance ; and I myself shall sing a song unto his dance : 

A dance-song and a mocking song directed unto 
the spirit of gravity, my very highest and most power- 
ful devil, whom they call ' the master of the world.' " 

And this is the song sung by Zarathustra, when 
Cupid and the girls danced together : 

"Of late I looked into thine eye, O life! And I 
seemed unto myself to sink into what is impenetrable. 

But thou drewest me out of it with thy golden 
hook. Mockingly thou laughedst when I called thee 

'This is the speech of all fish,' saidst thou. 'What 
they do not penetrate is impenetrable. 

But I am only changeable and wild and a woman 
in all respects, and not a virtuous one 

Although I am called by you men " the deep one " 
or "the faithful one" or "the eternal one" or "the 
mysterious one." 

But ye men always present us with your own virt- 
ues. Alas, ye virtuous ! ' 

Thus she laughed, the incredible one. But I never 
believe her or her laughter when she speaketh badly 
of herself. 


And when I talked with my wild wisdom privately, 
she told me angrily : ' Thou wiliest, thou desirest, thou 
lovest ; therefore only thou praisest life ! ' 

Then I almost answered in anger and told the truth 
unto the angry one ; and one cannot answer more 
angrily than when ' telling the truth ' unto one's wis- 

For thus things stand among us three. I love 
life alone from the bottom and, verily, the most, 
when I hate her ! 

But that I am fond of wisdom and often too fond, 
that is because she remindeth me of life very much ! 

Wisdom hath life's eye, life's laughter, and even 
life's little golden fishing-rod. Is it my fault that the 
two are so like unto each other ? 

And when once life asked me : ' Wisdom, who is 
she ? ' I eagerly said : ' Oh yes ! wisdom ! 

One is thirsty for her and is not satisfied; one 
looketh through veils; one catcheth with nets. 

Is she beautiful ? I do not know. But even the 
oldest carps are lured by her. 

Changeable she is and defiant; often I saw her 
bite her own lip and pass the comb the wrong way 
through her hair. 

Perhaps she is wicked and deceitful, and in all re- 
spects a woman ; but just when speaking badly of 
herself she seduceth most.' 

When I told that unto life, she laughed wickedly 


and shut her eyes. ' Say, of whom dost thou speak ? 
Is it of me ? 

Suppose thou wert right, doth one say that thus 
into my face ! But now speak of thy wisdom also ! ' 

Oh ! and now thou openedst again thine eye, O 
beloved life ! And I seemed again unto myself to sink 
into what is impenetrable." 

Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was 
finished and the girls had departed, sad he grew. 

"The sun hath gone down long ago," he said at 
last; "the meadow is damp, and coolness ariseth 
from the forests. 

An unknown something hovereth round me and 
gazeth in deep thought. What? Thou livest still, 
Zarathustra ? 

Why ? Wherefore ? Wherethrough ? Whither ? 
Where ? How ? Is it not folly still to live ? 

Alas ! my friends, it is the evening that thus out of 
myself asketh. Forgive me my sadness ! 

Evening it hath become. Forgive me that it hath 
become evening ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" ' Yonder is the island of graves, the silent. Yonder 
also are the graves of ray youth. Thither will I carry 
an evergreen wreath of life.' 

Resolving this in my heart I went over the sea. 

Oh, ye, ye visions and apparitions of my youth ! 
Oh, all ye glances of love, ye divine moments ! How 
could ye die so quickly for me ! This day I think of 
ycfu as of my dead ones. 

From your direction, my dearest dead ones, a sweet 
odour cometh unto me, an odour setting free heart 
and tears. Verily, it shaketh and setteth free the 
heart of the lonely sailor. 

Still I am the richest and he who is to be envied 
most I, the loneliest ! For I have had you, and ye 
have me still. Say, for whom as for me have such 
rose apples fallen from the tree ? 

Still I am the heir and soil of your love, flourish- 
ing in memory of you with many-coloured wild- 
growing virtues, O ye dearest! 

Alas, we had been made to remain nigh unto each 
other, ye kind, strange marvels ! And ye came not 
unto me and my desire, as shy birds do. Nay, ye 
came as trusting ones unto a trusting one ! 



Yea, like me, ye are made for faithfulness, and for 
tender eternities. Must I now call you after your 
faithlessness, ye divine glances and moments ? No 
other name have I yet learnt. 

Verily, too soon have ye died for me, ye fugitives. 
Yet ye did not flee from me, nor did I flee from 
you. Innocent we are towards each other in our 
faithlessness ! 

To kill me they strangled you, ye singing birds 
of my hopes ! Yea, after you, my dearest ones, 
wickedness always shot arrows to hit my heart! 

And it hath hit ! For ye have ever been what 
was dearest unto me, my possession and my being 
possessed. Therefore ye had to die young and much 
too soon ! 

At the most vulnerable things I possessed, the 
arrow was shot. That was after you whose skin is 
like down and still more like the smile that dieth by 
a glance ! 

But this word I shall say unto mine enemies : 
What is all manslaughter compared with what ye 
have done unto me ! 

More wicked things ye have done unto me than 
all manslaughter is. What was irrecoverable for me 
ye have taken from me. Thus I say unto you, mine 
enemies ! 

For ye have slain the visions and dearest marvels 
of my youth ! For ye have taken from me my play- 


fellows, the blessed spirits ! Unto their memory I lay 
down this wreath and this curse. 

This curse upon you, mine enemies! For ye have 
made short what was eternal for me ; as a sound 
breaketh off in a cold night ! Scarcely as a glancing 
of divine eyes it came unto me, as a moment ! 

Thus in a good hour once spake my purity : ' All 
beings shall be divine for me ! ' 

Then ye surprised me with foul ghosts. Alas ! 
Whither fled then that good hour? 

' All days shall be holy unto me.' Thus spake once 
thfe wisdom of my youth, verily, the speech of a 
gay wisdom ! 

But then ye, mine enemies, stole my nights and 
sold them to cause me sleepless pain. Alas ! Whither 
now hath fled that gay wisdom ? 

Once I desired lucky bird-omens. Then ye led an 
owl-monster across my way, an adverse one. Alas! 
Whither fled then my tender desire ? 

Once I promised to renounce all loathing. Then 
ye changed into ulcers those who were nigh unto 
me and nighest unto me. Alas ! Whither fled then 
my noblest promise ? 

As a blind man I once went in blessed ways. Then 
ye threw filth in the way of the blind man. And now 
the old footpath of the blind man striketh him with 

And when I did my hardest and celebrated the 


victory of mine overcomings, then ye made those 
who loved me cry, that I caused them the sorest 

Verily, it hath always been your action, to make 
bitter my best honey and the diligence of my best 

Ye always sent the most impudent beggars unto 
my charity. Ye always pressed the incurably shame- 
less round my sympathy. Thus ye wounded my 
virtues in their belief. 

And as soon as I laid down as a sacrifice what 
was holiest unto me, quickly your ' piety ' laid its 
fatter gifts beside it, so that in the steam of your 
fat my holiest was suffocated. 

And once I wished to dance as I had danced be- 
fore ; I wished to dance beyond all heavens. Then 
ye persuaded my dearest singer. 

And now he started a dull, terrible melody. Alas, 
he blew into mine ears like a mournful horn ! 

Murderous singer, tool of wickedness, most innocent 
one ! Already I stood prepared for the best dance ; 
then thou murderedst my rapture with thy tunes ! 

Only in dancing I know how to utter the parable 
of the highest things. And now my highest parable 
remained unuttered in my limbs ! 

Unuttered and unsaved remained my highest hope ! 
And all the visions and comforts of my youth died ! 

How did I bear it ? How did I forget and over- 


come such wounds ? How did my soul rise again 
from these graves ? 

Yea, a thing invulnerable, unburiable is within 
me; a thing that blasteth rocks; it is called my will. 
Silently and unchanged it walketh through the years. 

It will go its way on my feet, mine old will ; 
hard-hearted and invulnerable is its sense. 

Invulnerable I am at my heel only. There thou 
still livest and art like thyself, thou most patient one ! 
Thou hast ever broken through all graves, and dost 
so still ! 

fn thee what is unsaved of my youth still liveth. 
And as life and youth thou sittest hopeful on the 
yellow ruins of graves. 

Yea, thou still art for me the destroyer of all 
graves ! All hail unto thee, my will ! Only where 
there are graves are there resurrections." 

Thus sang Zarathustra. 


" ' Will unto truth ' ye call, ye wisest men, what 
inspireth you and maketh you ardent? 

' Will unto the conceivableness of all that is ' 
thus I call your will ! 

All that is ye are going to make conceivable. For 
with good mistrust ye doubt whether it is conceiv- 

But it hath to submit itself and bend before your- 
selves ! Thus your will willeth. Smooth it shall be- 
come and subject unto spirit as its mirror and 
reflected image. 

That is your entire will, ye wisest men, as a will 
unto power; even when ye speak of good and evil 
and of valuations. 

Ye will create the world before which to kneel 
down. Thus it is your last hope and drunkenness. 

The unwise, it is true, the folk, they are like 
unto a river down which a boat glideth. And in 
the boat the valuations are sitting solemn and 

Your will and your valuations ye placed on the 
river of becoming. What is believed by the folk as 



good and evil betrayeth unto me an old will unto 

It hath been you, ye wisest men, who placed such 
guests in the boat and gave them pomp and proud 
names, ye and your dominating will ! 

Now the river carrieth on your boat; it must 
carry it on. Little matter if the broken wave 
foameth and angrily contradicteth the keel! 

Not the river is your danger, nor the end of your 
good and evil, ye wisest men; but that will itself, 
will unto power, the unexhausted, procreative will 
of flif e. 

But in order that ye may understand my word of 
good and evil, I shall tell you my word of life and 
of all kinds of living things. 

I pursued living things, I walked on the broadest 
and the narrowest paths to perceive their kin. 

With an hundredfold mirror I caught their glance 
when their mouth was shut, in order to hear their 
eye speak. And their eye spake unto me. 

But wherever I found living things, there also I 
heard the speech of obedience. All living things are 
things that obey. 

And this is the second : he is commanded who 
cannot obey his own self. This is the way of living 

But this is the third I heard: to command is 
more difficult than to obey. And not only that the 


commander beareth the burden of all who obey, and 
that this burden easily crusheth him; 

An effort and a jeopardy appeared unto me to be 
contained in all commanding; and whenever living 
things command they risk themselves. 

Nay even, when they command themselves : even 
there they have to atone for their commanding. For 
their own law they must become judge and avenger 
and sacrifice. 

' How doth that happen ? ' I asked myself. What 
persuadeth living things to obey and command and 
obey in commanding ? 

Now hearken unto my word, ye wisest men ! Ex- 
amine earnestly whether I have stolen into the heart 
of life itself and unto the roots of its heart ! 

Wherever I found living matter I found will unto 
power ; and even in the will of the serving, I found 
the will to be master. 

To serve the stronger the weaker is persuaded by 
its own will which wisheth to be master over what is 
still weaker. This delight alone it liketh not to miss. 

And as the smaller giveth itself up unto the 
larger, in order to have itself delight from, and 
power over the smallest : thus even the largest 
giveth itself up, and for the sake of power risketh 

That is the devotion of the largest, to be jeopardy 
and danger and a casting of dice about death. 


And wherever there are sacrifice and services and 
loving glances, there is will to be master. By secret 
paths the weaker one stealeth into the castle and 
unto the heart of the more powerful one and there 
stealeth power. 

And this secret did life itself utter unto me : ' Be- 
hold/ it said, ' I am whatever must surpass itself. 

It is true, ye call it will unto procreation or impulse 
for the end, for the higher, the more remote, the more 
manifold ; but all that is one thing and one secret 

I perish rather than renounce that one thing; and, 
verily, wherever there is perishing and falling of leaves, 
behold, life sacrificeth itself for the sake of power ! 

That I must be war and becoming and end and 
the contradiction of the ends alas, he who findeth 
out my will, probably findeth out also on what 
crooked ways he hath to walk ! 

Whatever I create and however I love it, soon 
afterwards I have to be an adversary unto it and 
unto my love. Thus willeth my will. 

And even thou, O perceiver, art but a path and 
footstep of my will. Verily, my will unto power 
walketh on the feet of thy will unto truth ! 

Of course, he who shot after the word of "will 
unto existence" did not hit truth. Such a will- 
doth not exist! 

For what existeth not cannot will ; but what is 
in existence how could that strive after existence! 


Only where there is life, there is will; but not will 
unto life, but thus I teach thee will unto power! 

Many things are valued higher by living things 
than life itself ; but even out of valuing speaketh 
will unto power ! ' 

Thus life once taught me. And by means of that, 
ye wisest men, I read you the riddle of your heart. 

Verily, I tell you : good and evil, which would be 
imperishable, do not exist ! Of themselves they must 
ever again surpass themselves. 

With your values and words of good and evil ye 
exercise power, ye valuing ones. And this is your 
hidden love and the shining, trembling, and overflow- 
ing of your soul. 

But a stronger power waxeth out of your values, 
and a new overcoming. On it there break egg and 

And he who must be a creator in good and evil 
verily, he must first be a destroyer, and break values 
into pieces. 

Thus the highest evil is part of the highest good- 
ness. But that is creative goodness. 

Let us speak thereon, ye wisest men, however bad 
it be. To be silent is worse ; all unuttered truths be- 
come poisonous. 

And whatever will break on our truths, let it break ! 
Many a house hath yet to be built!" 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Still is the bottom of my sea. Who could know 
that it hideth jesting monsters ! 

Unshakable is my depth, but it shineth from swim- 
ming riddles and laughters. 

An august one I saw to-day, a solemn one, a peni- 
tent of spirit. Oh, how laughed my soul at his ugli- 

With his breast raised and like those who draw 
in their breath thus he stood there, the august one, 
and silent; 

Covered with ugly truths, the prey of his hunting, 
and rich with torn clothes ; many thorns also hung on 
him, but I saw no rose. 

Not yet had he learnt laughter and beauty. Frown- 
ing this hunter came back from the forest of percep- 

He returned from the struggle with wild beasts ; 
but out of his seriousness a wild beast looketh one 
not overcome ! 

Like a tiger still standeth he there, about to jump ; 
but I care not for these strained souls ; my taste hath 
no favour for all these reserved ones. 



And ye tell me, friends, that one cannot quarrel 
about taste and tasting? But all life is a struggle 
about taste and tasting! 

Taste that is at the same time weight and balance 
and the weighing one. And alas ! for all living things 
that would try to live without struggle about weight 
and balance and weighing ones ! 

If he would become weary of his augustness, this 
august one only then his beauty would begin. And 
not until then shall I taste him and find him tasty. 

And not until he turneth away from himself will 
he jump over his own shadow and lo ! straight into 
his sun. 

. Much too long hath he been sitting in the shadow ; 
the cheeks of the penitent of spirit grew pale ; he al- 
most died from hunger because of his expectations. 

Contempt is still in his eye ; and loathing is hidden 
round his mouth. Although he resteth just now, his 
rest hath not yet lain down in the sun. 

He ought to do as doth the bull; and his happiness 
ought to smell after earth and not after contempt of 

I should like to see him as a white bull snorting 
and roaring and going in front of the plough. And 
even his roaring should praise all that is earthy. 

Dark still is his face ; the shadow of his hand 
playeth over it. Overshadowed still is the sense of 
his eye. 


His deed itself is the shadow that lieth on him ; 
the hand obscureth the acting one. Not yet hath he 
overcome his deed. 

True, I love in him the bull's neck, but I also want 
to see the angel's eye. 

He also hath to unlearn his heroic will. He shall 
be one who is lifted up, and not only an august 
one. Ether itself should lift him who should have 
lost all will! 

He hath conquered monsters, he hath solved riddles. 
But besides he should save his monsters and riddles, 
he should alter them into heavenly children. 

Not yet hath his perception learnt how to smile 
and be without jealousy ; not yet hath his flowing 
passion become still in beauty. 

Verily, not in satiety shall his desire be silent and 
submerge, but in beauty ! Gracefulness is part of the 
generosity of the magnanimous. 

His arm put across his head thus the hero should 
rest; thus he should also overcome his resting. 

But for the hero above all the beautiful is the 
hardest of things. Unattainable by struggle is the 
beautiful for all eager will. 

A little more, a little less just that is here much, 
that is here the most. 

To stand with your muscles relaxed and with your 
will unharnessed, that is the hardest for all of you, 
ye august ! 


When power becometh gracious and steppeth down 
into visibleness beauty I call such stepping down. 

And of no one I demand beauty with the same 
eagerness as just from thee, thou powerful one. 
Let thy goodness be thy last self -overcoming ! 

Everything evil I expect from thee; therefore I 
demand from thee what is good. 

Verily, I laughed many a time over the weaklings 
who thought themselves good because they had lame 
paws ! 

Thou shalt strive after the virtue of the pillar. It 
ever getteth more beautiful and tender, but inside 
ever harder and more able to bear the load, the 
higher it ariseth. 

Yea, thou august one, one day thou shalt be 
beautiful and hold the mirror before thine own 

Then thy soul will quiver with god-like desires; 
and there will be adoration even in thy vanity ! 

For this is the secret of the soul. Not until the 
hero hath left it, is it approached in dream by 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Too far flew I into the future; a shivering seized 

And when I looked round, behold! time was mine 
only contemporary there. 

Then I flew backwards, homeward and ever in a 
greater haste. Thus I came unto you, ye present 
ones, and into the country of culture. 

For the first time have I brought with me an eye 
to see you and a good desire. Verily, with a long- 
ing in my heart have I come. 

But what befell me ? However frightened I was, 
I had to laugh ! Never hath mine eye seen any- 
thing so many-coloured ! 

I laughed and laughed whilst my foot was still 
trembling and my heart also. ' Behold, here is the 
home of all paint-pots ! ' said I. 

With fifty spots of paint on your face and limbs, 
ye sat there and aroused mine astonishment, ye pres- 
ent ones ! 

And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered 
your play of colours and spake in its favour ! 

Verily, ye could not possibly wear any better mask, 



ye present ones, than your own face is ! Who could 
recognise you ! 

Written all over with the signs of the past, and 
these signs painted over with new signs thus have 
ye concealed yourselves well from all soothsayers ! 

And even if one could look through your intestines 
who will believe that ye have intestines ? Ye 
seem to have been baked out of colours and glued 
papers ! 

All times and all peoples, many-coloured, gaze out 
of your veils ; all customs and beliefs, many-coloured, 
speak out of your gestures. 

He who would take away from you veils and 
garments and colours and gestures he would just 
keep sufficient to scare the birds. 

Verily, I myself am the scared bird, who for once 
saw you naked and colourless ; and I flew away 
when the 'skeleton made me signs of love. 

Rather I would be a day-labourer in the lower 
regions and among the shadows of the past ! For 
fatter and fuller than ye are the inhabitants of the 
lower regions ! 

This, yea, this is bitterness in my bowels, that I 
can endure you neither naked nor dressed, ye present 
ones ! 

All that is dismal in the future, all that hath 
scared the strayed birds, is indeed more home-like and 
more familiar than your ' reality.' 


For thus ye speak: 'We are wholly real and 
without any belief or superstition.' Thus ye give 
yourselves airs alas, even without having any 
breasts ! 

Oh, how could ye believe, ye many-coloured ye 
who are pictures of whatever hath been believed at 
any time! 

Ye are yourselves living refutations of belief and 
a breaking of limbs of all thought. Untrustworthy 
thus I call you, ye real ! 

All times rave against each other in your minds; 
aitd the dreams and gossip of all times have been 
more real than your being awake ! 

Sterile ye are. Therefore faith is lacking within 
you. But he who was compelled to create had 
always his prophesying dreams and prognostics in 
the stars and believed in belief ! 

Half-open doors ye are at which grave-diggers wait. 
And this is your reality : ' Everything deserveth to 

Oh, how ye appear unto me, ye sterile, how 
meagre in your ribs! And many of you knew that 

And they said : ' Whilst I was sleeping, a God, I 
suppose, clandestinely stole something from me ? 
Verily, enough to form a little woman out of it ! ' 

' Wonderful is the poverty of my ribs ! ' thus said 
many present ones. 


Yea, ye make me laugh at you, ye present ones ! 
And especially when ye are astonished at yourselves ! 

And woe unto me, if I could not laugh at your 
astonishment, and had to swallow whatever is loath- 
some in your dishes ! 

But as it is, I shall take you more lightly, since 
I have to bear heavy things. What matter, if beetles 
and flying worms alight on my burden ! 

Verily, it shall not thereby become heavier! And 
not from you, ye present ones, shall my great weari- 
ness spring. 

Alas ! where shall I now ascend with my longing ? 
From all mountain-tops I look out for my fathers' 
and my mothers' lands. 

But a home I found nowhere. Unresting I am in 
all towns and a departure at all gates. 

Strange and a mockery unto me are the present 
ones unto whom my heart hath driven me of late. 
Banished am I from my fathers' and my mothers' 

Thus I love only my children's land, the undis- 
covered, in the remotest sea. For it I bid my sails 
seek and seek. 

Unto my children shall I make amends for being 
the child of my fathers ; and unto all the future shall 
I make amends for this present ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"When the moon rose yesternight, I fancied she 
would give birth unto a sun. So broad and big she 
lay on the horizon. 

But a liar she was with her child-bearing ; and I 
shall rather believe in the man in the moon than in 
the woman. 

To be sure, there is little of man either in the 
moon, that shy dreamer of the night. Verily, with a 
bad conscience she strideth over the roofs. 

For he is lascivious and jealous, the monk in the 
moon, lascivious for earth and all delights of the 

Nay, I like him not, this tom-cat on the roofs ! 
Disgusting for me are all who steal round half- 
closed windows ! 

Piously and silently he walketh on over starry 
carpets. But I like not soft-stepping men's feet, 
without even a spur clinking. 

Every honest man's step speaketh; but the cat 
stealeth over the ground. Behold, like a cat, dis- 
honestly the moon strideth on. 

This parable I give unto you sentimental dissem- 



biers, unto you with your 'pure perception.' You / 
call lascivious ! 

Ye also love earth and things earthly. Truly I 
found you out! But shame and bad conscience are 
in your love ; ye are like the moon ! 

To despise things earthly your mind hath been per- 
suaded, but not your bowels which are the strongest 
thing within you ! 

And now your mind is ashamed to be under the 
will of your bowels, and goeth byways and lie-ways 
to escape its own shame. 

' That would be the highest for me ' thus saith 
your deceitful mind unto itself ' to look at life with- 
out desire, and not like the dog with the tongue 
hanging out; 

To be happy in gazing, with one's will dead, with- 
out the grasp or greediness of selfishness cold and 
ashen-grey all over the body, but with the eyes 
drunken like the moon ! 

That is what I should like best.' Thus the se- 
duced one seduceth himself to love earth, as the 
moon loveth it, and to touch its beauty solely with 
the eye. 

And I call it the immaculate perception of all 
things, that I want nothing from things but to be 
allowed to lie before them, like a mirror with an 
hundred eyes. 

Oh, ye sentimental dissemblers, ye lascivious ! Ye 


lack innocence in desire, and therefore ye backbite 

Verily, not as creators, procreators, happy in be- 
coming, ye love earth ! 

Where is innocence ? Where will unto procreation 
is. And he who would create beyond himself, hath 
in mine eyes the purest will. 

Where is beauty? Where I am compelled to will 
with all will; where I must love and perish in order 
that an image may not remain an image only. 

Loving and perishing, these words have rhymed 
for eternities. Will unto love, that is, to be willing 
even unto death. Thus I speak unto you cowards ! 

But now your emasculate ogling wisheth to be 
called ' contemplativeness.' And what can be touched 
with cowardly eyes is to be baptized ' beautiful ' ! Oh, 
ye befoulers of noble names ! 

But that shall be your curse, ye immaculate, 
ye pure perceivers, that ye shall never give birth. 
And that although ye lie broad and big on the 
horizon ! 

Verily, ye fill your mouth well with noble words, 
and we are to be made believe that your heart hath 
too great abundance, ye liars ? 

But my words are small, despised, crooked words; 
happily I pick up what falleth under the table during 
your dinner. 

Still they serve to tell dissemblers the truth ! Yea, 


my fishbones, shells, and stinging leaves shall tickle 
the noses of dissemblers ! 

Bad air is always around you and your meals. 
For your lascivious thoughts, your lies and secrecies 
are in the air! 

Dare first to believe yourselves yourselves and 
your intestines! He who doth not believe himself 
lieth ever. 

A God's mask ye hang before yourselves, ye 'pure.' 
In a God's mask hid itself your horrible coiled worm. 

Verily, ye deceive, ye ' contemplative ' ! Zarathustra 
also hath been the dupe of your god-like hides. He 
did not find out the coiling of the snakes by which 
they were stuffed. 

Once I thought I saw a God's soul play in your 
plays, ye pure perceivers ! No better art I once 
thought existed than your arts ! 

The filth of snakes and the bad odour were hidden 
from me by distance. So was the fact that the cun- 
ning of a lizard crept lasciviously about. 

But I stepped close unto you. Then the day came 
unto me, and now it cometh unto you, the moon's 
flirtation is at an end ! 

Look there ! Detected and pale she standeth there 
before the dawn of the day ! 

There it cometh already, the glowing one, its love 
unto earth cometh ! All sun-love is innocence and 
creative desire. 


Look there, how impatiently it cometh over the 
sea ! Feel ye not the thirst and the hot breath of its 
love ? 

It will suck the sea, and by drinking its depth 
draw up unto the height. Then the lust of the sea 
riseth with a thousand breasts. 

It desireth to be kissed and sucked by the thirst 
of the sun ; it desireth to become air and height, and 
a foot-path of light, and light itself ! 

Verily, like the sun I love life and all deep seas. 

And this is called perception by myself : all that 
is tleep shall be raised upwards unto my height ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" When I lay sleeping, a sheep ate at the ivy- 
wreath of my head, ate and said eating: 'Zara- 
thustra is no longer a scholar.' 

Said it and went off clumsily and proudly. So a 
child told me. 

I like to lie here where the children play, at the 
broken wall, under thistles and red poppy flowers. 

A scholar am I still for the children and the 
thistles and the red poppy flowers. Innocent are 
they, even in their wickedness. 

But a scholar am I no longer for the sheep. Thus 
my fate willeth be it blessed ! 

For this is the truth : I have departed from the 
house of scholars, and the door I have shut violently 
behind me. 

Too long sat my soul hungry at their table. Not, 
as they, am I trained for perceiving as for cracking 

Freedom I love, and a breeze over a fresh soil. 
And I would rather sleep on ox-skins than on their 
honours and respectabilities. 

I am too hot and am burnt with mine own thoughts, 



so as often to take my breath away. Then I must 
go into the open air and away from all dusty rooms. 

But they are sitting cool in the cool shadow. They 
like to be spectators in all things and take care not 
to sit where the sun burneth on the steps. 

Like such as stand in the street and gaze at the 
folk passing thus they tarry and gaze at the thoughts 
thought by others. 

As soon as they are grasped by hands, they give 
off dust like flour-bags, and involuntarily. But who 
would find out rightly that their dust is derived from 
the? corn and the yellow delight of summer fields ? 

When they give themselves the air of wisdom, I grow 
cold with their petty sayings and truths. An odour is 
often in their wisdom, as if it sprang from the swamp. 
And, verily, I have even heard the frog croak in it! 

Clever they are, they have able fingers. What doth 
my simplicity wish from their manifoldness ? Their 
fingers understand all threading and knotting and 
weaving. Thus they weave the stockings of the spirit ! 

Good clock-works are they. Only take care to 
wind them up properly! Then without deceitfulness 
they indicate the hour and make a modest noise in 
so doing. 

Like millworks they work, and like corn-crushers. 
Let folk only throw their grain into them! They 
know only too well how to grind corn and make 
white dust out of it. 


They look well at each other's fingers and trust 
each other not over-much. Ingenious in little strata- 
gems, they wait for those whose knowledge walketh 
on lame feet; like spiders they wait. 

I have seen them always prepare their poison with 
prudence ; and they always put gloves of glass on 
their fingers in so doing. 

They also know how to play with false dice ; and I 
found them play so eagerly that they perspired from it. 

We are strangers unto each other, and their virtues 
are still more contrary unto my taste than their false- 
hoods and false dice. 

And when I lived among them I lived above them. 
Therefore they became angry at me. 

They like not to hear of any one walking above 
their heads. Thus they laid wood and earth and 
filth between myself and their heads. 

Thus they have deadened the sound of my steps ; 
and the most learned have heard me worst. 

The fault and weakness of all human beings they 
laid between themselves and myself. ' False ceiling ' 
they call that in their houses. 

But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts above 
their heads ; and even if I should walk on mine own 
faults, I should still be above them and their heads. 

For men are not equal. Thus speaketh justice. 
And what I will they would not be allowed to will ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Since I came to know the body better," said 
Zarathustra unto one of his disciples, "spirit hath 
been for me, as it were, spirit only, and all that is 
'imperishable' only a simile." 

"Thus I heard thee say already," answered the 
disciple. "And when thou saidst thus thou didst 
add : 'But the poets lie too much.' Why didst thou 
say that the poets lie too much ? " 

"Why?" said Zarathustra. "Thou askest why? I 
am not of those who may be asked for their whys. 

Forsooth, is mine experience of yesterday ? It is 
long since I found by experience the reasons for mine 

Would I not require to be a barrel of memory, if 
I were to have my reasons with me? 

Even to keep mine opinions is too much for me ; 
and many a bird flieth off. 

And sometimes indeed I find a bird in my dove- 
cot, that hath come there but is strange unto me 
and trembleth when I lay my hand on it. 

But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee ? 
That the poets lie too much? But Zarathustra is a 
poet also. 



Believest thou now that he spake the truth in 
this point ? Why dost thou believe that ? " 

The disciple answered : " I believe in Zarathustra." 
But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled. 

"Belief doth not make me blessed," said he, 
"more especially not the belief in myself. 

But suppose somebody said seriously that the 
poets lie too much : he is right, we lie too much. 

Besides we know too little and are bad learners. 
Thus we are compelled to lie. 

And which of us poets hath not adulterated his 
wine ? Many a poisonous mishmash hath been 
brought about in our cellars ; many indescribable 
things have been done there. 

And because we know little we like from our 
heart's heart the poor in spirit, especially if they are 
little young women ! 

And we are even desirous of the things which the 
little old women tell each other at night. This we 
call in ourselves eternally feminine. 

And as though there were a particular secret ac- 
cess unto knowledge, which was obstructed for those 
who learn something we believe in the folk and 
their 'wisdom.' 

But this is what all poets believe, that he who is 
lying in the grass or by lonely slopes and pricketh 
up his ears, learneth something about the things 
which are between heaven and earth. 


And when feeling amorous emotions, the poets 
ever think that nature herself is in love with them. 

And that she stealeth unto their ear, to whisper 
into it secret things and love-flatteries, of that they 
boast, and in it they take their pride in the presence 
of all mortals ! 

Alas, there are so many things between heaven 
and earth of which poets only have dreamt ! 

And chiefly above heaven. For all Gods are a 
simile of poets, an imposition by poets ! 

Verily, we are always drawn upwards namely 
tnto the kingdom of clouds. On these we place our 
coloured dolls and call them Gods and beyond-men. 

For they are just light enough for such chairs 
all these Gods and beyond-men ! 

Alas, how weary I am of all the inadequate things 
which are obstinately maintained to be actuality! 
Alas, how weary I am of poets ! " 

Zarathustra so saying, his disciple was angry with 
him but was silent. And Zarathustra was silent 
also ; and his eye had turned inwards, as though he 
gazed into far distances. At last he sighed and took 

Then he said : " I am of to-day and of the past ; 
but something is within me that is of to-morrow and 
the day after to-morrow and the far future. 

I became weary of poets, of the old and of the 
new. Superficial all of them are, and shallow seas. 


They did not think deep enough. Therefore their 
feeling did not sink so deep as to reach the bottom. 

Some voluptuousness and some tediousness these 
have even been their best meditation. 

As a breathing and vanishing of ghosts I regard 
all the strumming of their harp. What have they 
known hitherto of the ardour of tones ! 

Besides they are not cleanly enough for me. All 
of them make their water muddy that it may seem 

And they like to let themselves appear as recon- 
cilers. But mediators and mixers they remain for 
me, and half-and-half ones and uncleanly ! 

Alas, it is true I have cast my net in their seas 
and tried to catch good fish ; but I always drew up 
the head of some old God. 

Thus the sea gave a stone unto the hungry one. 
And perhaps they themselves are born from the sea. 

True, one fmdeth pearls in them. So much the 
more are they like unto the hard shell-fish. And 
instead of a soul I often found salt slime in them. 

From the sea they learned even its vanity. Is not 
the sea the peacock of peacocks ? 

Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes it unfoldeth 
its tail; and it never wearieth of its lace-fan of silver 
and silk. 

Defiantly looketh at it the buffalo, with soul nigh the 
sand, still nigher the thicket, but nighest the swamp. 


What is for it beauty and sea and peacock-decora- 
tion ? This simile I give unto poets. 

Verily, their mind itself is the peacock of peacocks, 
and a sea of vanity ! 

The mind of poets wisheth spectators, even if it 
were buffaloes ! 

But I wearied of that mind ; and I see a time when 
it will weary of itself. 

Changed already have I seen the poets, and their 
glance turned against themselves. 

Penitents of spirit I saw come. They grew out of 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


There is an island in the sea not far from the 
blissful islands of Zarathustra in which a volcano 
smoketh constantly. The folk, and especially the 
little old women among the folk, say that that island 
is set before the gate of the underworld. But through 
the volcano there is a narrow path down, which leadeth 
unto that gate of the underworld. 

About that time when Zarathustra lived on the 
blissful islands it came to pass that a ship cast an- 
chor at that island on which the smoking mountain 
standeth ; and the sailors of that ship went ashore in 
order to shoot rabbits! But about the hour of noon, 
when the captain and his men had mustered again, 
they suddenly saw a man come through the air unto 
them, and a voice said distinctly : " It is time ! It is 
high time ! " But when that person was nighest unto 
them (he passed by them flying quickly like a shadow, 
in the direction in which the volcano was situated) 
they recognised with the greatest confusion that it 
was Zarathustra. For all of them, except the captain, 
had seen him before, and they loved him, as the folk 
love : blending love and awe in equal parts. 



"Lo there!" said the old steersman, " Zarathustra 
goeth unto hell!" 

About the same time when these sailors landed at 
the fire-island, a rumour went about that Zarathustra 
had disappeared. And when his friends were asked 
they told how at night he had gone aboard a ship 
without saying whither he was going to voyage. 

Thus some anxiety arose. But after three days the 
story of the sailors was added unto that anxiety 
and now every one said that the devil had taken Zara- 
thustra. Although his disciples laughed at that gossip 
find one of them even said : " I rather believe that 
Zarathustra hath taken the devil," at the bottom of 
their soul they were all full of sorrow and longing. 
Thus their joy was great when, on the fifth day, 
Zarathustra appeared among them. 

And this is the story of Zarathustra's conversation 
with the fiery dog: 

" Earth," said he, " hath a skin ; and that skin hath 
diseases. One of these diseases, for example, is called 

And another of these diseases is called 'fiery dog'; 
of it men have told and been told many lies. 

To find out this secret I went beyond the sea. 
And I have seen truth naked, verily ! barefoot up to 
its neck. 

Now I know the truth about that fiery dog ; and at 
the same time about all the devils of casting out and 


of revolution, of which not only little old women are 

'Come up, fiery dog, out of thy depth!' I shouted, 
' and confess how deep that depth is ! Whence cometh 
what thou snortest up ? 

Thou drinkest enough at the sea ; that is betrayed 
by thy salt eloquence ! Verily, considering that thou 
art a dog of the depth thou takest thy food too much 
from the surface ! 

At the highest I regard thee as a ventriloquist 
of earth, and whenever I heard devils of revolution 
and casting out speak, I found them to be like thee : 
salt, deceitful, and shallow. 

Ye understand how to roar and to darken with 
ashes ! Ye are the best swaggerers and have suffi- 
ciently learnt the art of heating mud. 

Wherever ye are, there must mud be nigh, and 
many mud-like, hollow, squeezed-in things. They seek 
to get into freedom. 

"Freedom" all of you like best to shout. But I 
have lost my belief in " great events," whenever much 
shouting and smoke are round them. 

And believe me, friend Hellish Noise ! The great- 
est events are not our loudest but our stillest hours. 

The world doth not revolve round the inventors 
of new noise, but round the inventors of new values ; 
inaudibly it turneth. 

And now confess ! Little had actually happened 


when thy noise and smoke disappeared. What matter 
that a town became a mummy, and a statue lay in 
the mud ! 

And this word I tell the subverters of statues. 
Probably the greatest folly is to throw salt into the 
sea, and statues into the mud. 

In the mud of your contempt the statue lay. But 
that very fact is its law, that out of contempt life and 
living beauty grow again ! 

With more god-like features it now ariseth, seducing 
by suffering ; and verily ! it will thank you one day 
fpr subverting it, ye subverters ! 

But with this counsel I counsel kings and churches 
and all that is weak from old age and virtue : allow 
yourselves to be subverted ! In order that ye may 
recover life, and that virtue may recover you!' 

Thus I spake before the fiery dog; then it inter- 
rupted me sullenly and asked : ' Church ? What is 
that ? ' 

'Church?' I answered, 'that is a kind of state, 
viz., the most deceitful kind. But be quiet, thou hypo- 
critical dog ! Thou knowest thy kin best, I suppose ! 

The state is a hypocritical dog like thyself; like 
thyself it liketh to speak with smoke and roaring, in 
order to make believe, like thee, that it speaketh out 
of the womb of things. 

For it wisheth absolutely to be the most important 
animal on earth, the state. And it is believed to be so.' 


When I had said thus, the fiery dog behaved as 
if it were mad with envy. 'How?' it cried, 'the 
most important animal on earth? And it is believed 
to be so ? ' And so much steam and terrible voices 
came from its throat, that I thought it would choke 
with anger and envy. 

At last it became quieter, and its panting ceased. 
But as soon as it was quiet I said laughing : 

'Thou art angry, fiery dog. Therefore I am right 
about thee ! 

And in order that I may also be right in future, 
let me speak unto thee of another fiery dog, that 
actually speaketh out of the heart of earth. 

Gold is breathed by its breath, and a golden rain. 
Thus its heart willeth. What are for it ashes and 
smoke and hot phlegm ! 

Laughter fluttereth out of it like coloured clouds ; 
it misliketh thy gargling and spitting and thy pains 
in the bowels ! 

But gold and laughter it taketh out of the heart 
of earth. For thou mayest now know the heart of 
earth is of gold' 

When the fiery dog had heard that, it could bear 
no longer to listen unto me. In shame it drew in its 
tail ; sorely cast down it said : ' Bow wow ! ' and crept 
down into its cave." 

Thus told Zarathustra. But his disciples scarcely 
listened unto him. So great was their desire to tell 


him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the flying 

"What am I to think of that!" said Zarathustra. 
"Am I a ghost? 

But it may have been my shadow. I suppose ye 
have heard some things about the wanderer and his 
shadow ? 

But one thing is sure : I must keep it shorter, 
otherwise it spoileth my reputation." 

And Zarathustra shook his head once more and 
wondered. " What am I to think of that ! " he re- 

" Why did that ghost cry : ' It is high time ! ' 

For ivhat is it high time ? " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"And I saw a great sadness coming over men. 
The best became weary of their works. 

A doctrine went out, a belief ran with it : ' All is 
empty, all is equal, all hath been!' 

And from all hills it echoed : ' All is empty, all is 
equal, all hath been ! ' 

True, we have reaped. But why grew all our fruits 
rotten and brown ? What hath fallen down from the 
evil moon last night ? 

In vain hath been all work, our wine hath become 
poison, an evil eye hath burnt our fields and hearts 

Dry all of us have become ; and when fire falleth 
down on us we become dust like ashes. Fire itself 
we have wearied out. For us, all wells pined away; 
even the sea receded from us. All the soil is going 
to break, but the depth is not going to devour 
anything ! 

Alas ! where is a sea left to be drowned in ? Thus 
soundeth our lament, away over shallow swamps. 

Verily, we are already too weary to die. Now we 
wake on and live on in burial vaults!" 




Thus heard Zarathustra a fortune-teller say ; and 
the prophecy touched his heart and changed him. He 
went about dreary and weary; and he became like 
those of whom the fortune-teller had spoken. 

"Verily," said he unto his disciples, "yet a little 
while, and then cometh that long twilight. Alas, 
how can I save my light beyond it ! 

Would that it were not extinguished in that sad- 
ness ! For it is meant to be a light for still remoter 
worlds, and for the remotest nights ! " 

Thus afflicted Zarathustra went about. And for 
three days he did not take any drink or food ; he had 
no rest and lost his speech. At last it came to pass 
that he fell into a deep sleep. But his disciples sat 
around him in long night-watches and waited sorrow- 
ing, to see whether he would awake and speak again 
and recover from his affliction. 

This is the speech which Zarathustra made when 
he awoke. But his voice sounded unto his disciples 
as though it came from a far distance. 

"Now listen unto the dream I dreamt, ye friends, 
and help me to find out its sense ! 

A riddle it is still for me, that dream. Its sense 
is hidden within it and caught in it, and flieth not 
yet over it with free wings. 

I dreamt I had renounced all life. I had become 
a night watchman and grave watchman, there on the 
lonely castle of death in the mountains. 


On high there I guarded death's coffins. The 
damp vaults stood full of such signs of triumph. Out 
of glass coffins, overcome life gazed at me. 

The odour of dusty eternities I breathed. Sultry 
and dusty lay my soul. And who could have aired 
his soul there ! 

Light of midnight was always round me, loneliness 
cowered beside me, and, as the third, the death-still- 
ness-and-rattle, the most wicked of all my female 

I had keys with me, the rustiest of keys ; and I knew 
how to open with them the loudest-creaking doors. 

Like a very cruel groan the sound ran through 
the long corridors when the door opened on both 
hinges ; weirdly cried that bird ; it liked not to be 

But still more terrible, strangling one's heart, it 
was when it became silent again and still round 
about, and I sat alone with that insidious silence. 

Thus the time went on and crept on, if there really 
was time. What know I thereof ! But at last that 
came to pass which awakened me. 

Three times blows struck the door, like thunder 
strokes ; three times the vaults resounded and 
groaned ; then I went unto the door. 

'Alpa!' I called, 'who carrieth his ashes unto 
the mountains? Alpa! Alpa! Who carrieth his 
ashes unto the mountains ? ' 



And I pressed the key and tried to lift the door, 
and exerted myself. But it was not yet opened a 
ringer's breadth 

Then an impetuous wind tore its two halves apart. 
Whistling, whizzing, and buzzing it threw a black 
coffin at me. 

And amidst the roaring and whistling and whizz- 
ing the coffin brake and spat out a thousandfold 

And out of a thousand caricatures of children, 
angels, owls, fools, and butterflies as big as children, 
something laughed and mocked and roared at me. 

It made me sore afraid, it threw me down. And 
with terror I yelled, as never I yelled before. 

But mine own cry awakened me ; and I became 
conscious again." 

Thus Zarathustra told his dream and then was 
silent. For he did not yet know the interpretation 
of it. But the disciple whom he loved most, arose 
quickly and took Zarathustra's hand, saying : 

"Thy life itself is explained unto us by this dream, 
O Zarathustra ! 

Art thou not thyself the wind with whizzing whist- 
ling, that openeth the doors of the castles of death? 

Art thou not thyself the coffin of many-coloured 
wickednesses and caricatures of the angels of life? 

Verily, like a thousandfold laughter of children 
Zarathustra entereth all chambers of the dead, laugh- 


ing at those night watchmen and grave watchmen, 
and whoever else rattleth with gloomy keys. 

Thou wilt terrify and subvert them with thy 
laughter. Impotence and awakening will be . proved 
by thy power over them. 

And even when the long dawn cometh, and the 
weariness of death, thou wilt not set in our sky, thou 
advocate of life ! 

Thou madest us see new stars and new beauties 
of the night. Verily, life itself thou didst stretch 
over us like a many-coloured tent. 

Now for ever the laughter of children will spring 
forth from coffins ; now for ever a strong wind will 
come victoriously over all weariness of death. Of 
that thou art thyself a pledge and a prophet. 

Verily, thou beheldest thine enemies themselves, in 
thy dream ; that was thy hardest dream ! 

But as thou awokest and earnest back from them 
unto thyself, so shall they awake from themselves 
and come unto thee ! " 

Thus said the disciple. And now all the others 
thronged round Zarathustra and took his hands and 
tried to persuade him to leave his bed and his sad- 
ness and return unto them. But Zarathustra sat 
upright on his couch and with a strange glance. 
Like unto one who returneth from a long journey 
abroad he gazed at his disciples and examined their 
faces ; but not yet did he recognise them. But when 


they lifted him and set him on his feet, behold, then 
his eye changed at once. He understood all that 
had befallen, he stroked his beard and said with a 
strong voice : 

" Up ! This hath had its time. Take care, my dis- 
ciples, that we have a good dinner, and that right 
early ! Thus would I do penance for bad dreams ! 

But the fortune-teller shall eat and drink at my 
side. And, verily, I shall show him a sea in which he 
can be drowned ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. And then for a long 
while he gazed into the face of the disciple who had 
been the interpreter of his dream shaking his head. 


When Zarathustra one day crossed the large bridge, 
cripples and beggars surrounded him, and a hunchback 
thus spake unto him : 

"Behold, Zarathustra! Even the folk learn from 
thee and learn belief in thy teaching. But in order 
that they may believe thee entirely, one thing more is 
wanted first thou must persuade us cripples ! Here 
thou hast now a beautiful selection, and, verily, an 
opportunity with more than one forelock to catch it 
by. Thou mightest heal the blind and make the lame 
run, and thou mightest also perhaps take a little from 
him who hath too much behind him. That, I think, 
would be the proper way to make the cripples believe 
in Zarathustra ! " 

But Zarathustra replied thus unto him who had 
spoken : " If one taketh the hunch from the hunch- 
back, one taketh his spirit away. Thus the folk 
teach. And if one giveth the blind one his eyes, he 
seeth too many bad things on earth, so that he curseth 
him who hath healed him. But he who maketh the lame 
one run, hurteth him sorely ; for just when he hath 
learnt to run, his vices run away with him. Thus 



the folk teach about cripples. And why should not 
Zarathustra learn from the folk, what the folk learn 
from Zarathustra? 

But it is of the least moment for me since I came to 
live among men, to see : these are lacking an eye, and 
that man is lacking an ear, and a third one is lacking 
a leg, and there are others who have lost the tongue 
or the nose or the head. 

I see and have seen worse things and many kinds 
of things so abominable that I should not like to speak 
of all things ; and about some I should not even stand 
silent : namely men who are lacking everything except 
that they have one thing too much ; men who are 
nothing but a great eye, or a great mouth, or a great 
womb, or something else great. Reversed cripples I 
call such. 

And when I came out of my solitude and crossed 
this bridge for the first time I trusted not mine eyes, 
and gazed there again and again, and said at last : 
'That is an ear, an ear as great as a man ! ' I gazed 
there still more thoroughly. And really, under the ear 
something moved, which was pitifully small and poor 
and slender. And, truly, that immense ear was carried 
by a small, thin stalk ; and the stalk was a man ! He 
who would put a glass before his eye could even rec- 
ognise a small envious face ; also that a little bloated 
soul was hanging down from the stalk. The folk, 
however, informed me that that great ear was not only 


a man, but a great man, a genius. But I never be- 
lieved the folk when they spake of great men and 
kept my belief that he was a reversed cripple who 
had too little of all things, and too much of one 

Having thus spoken unto the hunchback and unto 
those whose mouthpiece and advocate that man was, 
Zarathustra turned unto his disciples in deep distress 
and said : 

"Verily, my friends, I walk among men as among 
the fragments and limbs of men ! 

This is the dreadful thing for mine eye, that I find 
man broken into pieces and scattered as over a battle- 
field and a butcher's shambles. 

And when mine eye fleeth from to-day into the 
past it findeth always the same : fragments and limbs 
and dismal accidents, but no men ! 

The present and the past on earth alas ! my 
friends, these are what / find most intolerable. 
And I should not know how to live, if I were not a 
prophet of what must come. 

A prophet, a willing one, a creator, a veritable 
future, and a bridge unto the future and alas! be- 
sides, as it were, a cripple at that bridge. All these 
things is Zarathustra. 

And ye also asked yourselves : ' Who is Zarathustra 
for us ? How is he to be called by us ? ' And as I 
do, ye gave yourselves questions for answer. 



Is he one who promiseth ? Or one who fulfilleth ? 
One who conquereth ? Or one who inheriteth ? An 
autumn ? Or a plough ? A physician ? Or a con- 
valescent ? 

Is he a poet ? Or a truthful one ? A liberator ? Or 
a subduer ? One who is good ? Or one who is bad ? 

I walk among men as among the fragments of the 
future, of that future which I see. 

And all my thought and striving is to compose 
and gather into one thing what is a fragment and a 
riddle and a dismal accident. 

And how could I bear to be a man, if man was not a 
poet and a solver of riddles and the saviour of accident ! 

To save the past ones and to change every ' It 
was' into a 'Thus I would have it' that alone would 
mean salvation for me ! 

Will that is the name of the liberator and bringer 
of joy. Thus I taught you, my friends ! But now 
learn this in addition : will itself is still a prisoner. 

Willing delivereth. But what is the name of that 
which putteth into chains even the liberator? 

' It was ; ' thus the gnashing of the teeth and the 
loneliest affliction of will are named. Impotent against 
what hath been done, it is an evil spectator of all 
that is past. 

Will is unable to will anything in the past. That 
it cannot break time and the desire of time, that is 
the loneliest affliction of will. 


Willing delivereth. What doth willing itself invent 
in order to get rid of its affliction and mock at its 
prison ? 

Alas, every prisoner becometh a fool ! Foolishly ; 
likewise, imprisoned will delivereth itself. 

That time doth not go backwards, that is will's 
wrath. 'What was' is the name of the stone it 
cannot turn. 

And thus it turneth stones out of wrath and in- 
dignation and taketh revenge on what doth not feel 
wrath and indignation like it. 

Thus will, the liberator, became a causer of pain. 
And on all that is able to suffer, it taketh revenge for 
being unable to enter the past. 

This, this alone, is revenge: will's abhorrence of 
time and its 'It was.' 

Verily, great folly liveth in our will ; and it became 
a curse for all that is human, that that folly learned 
how to have spirit ! 

The spirit of revenge my friends, that hath hith- 
erto been the best meditation of men. And wherever 
there was affliction, there punishment was supposed 
to be. 

'Punishment' thus revenge calleth itself. With a 
word of lying, it feigneth a good conscience for itself. 

And because there is affliction in the willing one, 
because he cannot will backwards all willing and all 
living were supposed to be punishment ! 


And now one cloud after another hath rolled over 
the spirit, until at last madness preached : ' Everything 
perisheth, therefore all is worthy to perish!' 

'And this law of time is justice, that time must 
devour its own children.' Thus madness preached. 

'Morally things are arranged according to right 
and punishment. Oh ! where is the salvation from the 
current of things and the " existence " of punishment ? ' 
Thus madness preached. 

' Can there be salvation if there is an eternal right ? 
Alas, unturnable is the stone " It was ! " Eternal 
mfist be all punishments ! ' Thus madness preached. 

'No action can be annihilated. How could it be 
undone by punishment ! This, this, is what is eternal 
in the punishment of "existence," that existence itself 
must eternally be again action and guilt ! 

Unless it should be, that at last will would save 
itself, and willing would become not-willing.' But ye 
know, my brethren, this fabulous song of madness ! 

I led you away from those fabulous songs, when I 
taught you: 'All will is a creator.' 

All ' It was ' is a fragment, a riddle, a dismal accident 
until a creating will saith unto it : ' Thus I would have it ! ' 

Until a creating will saith unto it : ' Thus I will ! 
Thus I shall will ! * 

But did it ever speak thus? And when doth that 
happen ? Hath will been unharnessed yet from its 
own folly? 


Hath will become its own saviour and bringer of 
joy? Hath it unlearnt the spirit of revenge and the 
gnashing of teeth ? 

And who taught it reconciliation with time and 
something higher than all reconciliation is ? 

Something higher than all reconciliation is, must 
be willed by the will that is will unto power. But 
how doth that happen unto it? And who taught it 
that willing into the past ? " 

But at this place of his speech it came to pass that 
Zarathustra stopped suddenly and looked like unto 
one who is sore afraid. With a terrified eye he looked 
upon his disciples. As it were with arrows, his eye 
pierced their thoughts and back-thoughts. But after 
a short while he again laughed and said appeased : 

"It is difficult to live with men because silence is 
so difficult. Especially for a talkative person." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. But the hunchback had 
listened unto the conversation with his face covered 
over. Yet when he heard Zarathustra laugh he looked 
up curiously and said slowly : 

" But why doth Zarathustra speak unto us in differ- 
ent wise from that in which he speaketh unto his 
disciples ? " 

Zarathustra answered : " What cause is there for 
astonishment ? With the hunchback, one may well 
speak jn a hunchbacked way ' " 


" Good and well," said the hunchback ; " and among 
schoolfellows one may well talk of school. 

But why doth Zarathustra speak in different wise 
unto his disciples from that in which he speaketh 
unto himself ! " 


" Not the height, the declivity is the terrible thing ! 

The declivity where the glance hurleth down, and 
the hand graspeth up. There the heart becometh 
dizzy from its double will. 

Alas, friends, do ye guess rightly the double will 
of my heart? 

This, this is my declivity and my danger, that my 
glance hurleth up, and my hand would fain clutch and 
lean upon depth ! 

My will clingeth round man ; with chains I bind 
myself unto man because I am torn upwards unto 
beyond-man. For thither mine other will is longing. 

And for this purpose I live blind among men as 
though I did not know them ; that my hand might 
not lose entirely its belief in what is firm. 

I know not you men ; this darkness and comfort 
is frequently spread out over me. 

I am sitting at the gateway for every villain and 
ask : ' Who is going to deceive me ? ' 

My first manly prudence is that I admit myself to be 
deceived in order not to be compelled to guard myself 
from deceivers. 



Alas, if I guarded myself from man how could man 
be an anchor for my ball ! Much too easily would I 
be drawn upwards and away ! 

This providence hangeth over my fate, that I must be 
without caution. 

And whoever wisheth not to die of thirst among 
men, must learn to drink out of all glasses ; and who- 
ever wisheth to remain clean among men, must under- 
stand to wash himself even with dirty water. 

Thus I often spake unto myself comforting : ' Up ! 
up ! old heart ! A misfortune of thine hath failed. 
Enjoy that as thy happiness ! ' 

But this is mine other manly prudence : I spare the 
conceited more than the proud. 

Is not wounded conceit the mother of all tragedies ? 
But where pride is wounded, there groweth up some- 
thing better than pride. 

In order that life may be a fine spectacle, its play 
must be played well. But for that purpose good actors 
are required. 

Good actors, I found, all the conceited are. They 
play and wish that folk may like to look at their play- 
ing. All their spirit is in this will. 

They act themselves, they invent themselves ; close by 
them I like to look at life's play, it cureth melancholy. 

Therefore I spare all the conceited, because they are 
physicians of my melancholy and keep me tied fast 
unto man as unto a spectacle. 


And then : in the conceited one, who could measure 
the entire depth of his modesty ! I am favourable and 
sympathetic towards him because of his modesty. 

From you he wisheth to learn his belief in himself ; 
he feedeth from your glances, he eateth praise off your 

He even believeth your lies when ye lie well about 
him. For in its depths his heart sigheth : 'What am //' 

And if that is the right virtue, which knoweth not 
about itself : now, the conceited one knoweth not about 
his modesty! 

But this is my third manly prudence, that I allow 
not the sight of the wicked to be made disagreeable 
through your fear. 

I am blessed in seeing the marvels which hot 
sunshine breedeth : tigers and palm-trees and rattle- 

Among men there is a beautiful brood from the hot 
sunshine, and in the wicked there are many astonishing 

Let me confess : as your wisest men did not appear 
unto me to be so very wise, so I found men's wicked- 
ness much less than the fame of it. 

And often I asked with a shaking of my head : ' Why 
rattle still, ye rattle-snakes?' 

Verily, even for what is wicked there is still a future ! 
And the hottest south hath not yet been discovered for 


How many things are at present called highest wick- 
edness, which are only twelve shoes broad and three 
months long! One day, however, bigger dragons will 
come into the world. 

For, in order that beyond-man may not lack a dragon, 
a beyond-dragon that is worthy of him, much hot sun- 
shine must glow over damp primeval forest! 

Out of your wild cats tigers must have grown and 
crocodiles out of your poisonous toads. For the good 
hunter shall have a good hunt ! 

And, verily, ye good and just! Much in you is 
laughable and especially your fear of what hath hith- 
erto been called ' devil ' ! 

What is great is so strange unto your soul, that 
beyond-man would be terrible unto you by his kindness ! 

And ye wise and knowing men, ye would flee from 
the burning sun of wisdom, in which beyond-man 
rejoiceth to bathe his nakedness ! 

Ye highest men with whom mine eye hath met! 
This is my doubt as regardeth you, and my secret 
laughter: I guess, my beyond-man ye would call 

Alas, I have grown weary of these highest and best ! 
From their ' height ' I longed to rise upwards, out, away 
unto beyond-man ! 

A terror overcame me when I saw these best men 
naked. Then wings grew unto me to fly away into 
remote futures. 


Into more remote futures, into more southern souths 
than artist ever dreamt of: thither where Gods are 
ashamed of all clothing! 

But I wish to see you disguised, ye neighbours and 
fellow-men, and well adorned, and vain, and worthy, as 
'the good and just,' 

And disguised I will sit among you myself, in order 
to mistake you and myself. For this is my last manly 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye 
see me troubled, driven away, unwillingly obedient, 
ready to go alas, to go away from you ! 

Yea, once more Zarathustra hath to go into his 
solitude ! But this time the bear goeth back into its 
pave sadly ! 

What hath happened unto me ? Who commandeth 
this ? Alas, mine angry mistress wisheth it to be 
thus ! She spake unto me. Did I ever mention her 
name unto you ? 

Yester-even my stillest hour spake unto me. That 
is the name of my terrible mistress. 

And thus it happened. (For everything must I tell 
you, that your heart may not harden towards him 
who taketh sudden leave ! ) 

Know ye the terror of him who falleth asleep? 

Unto his very toes he is terrified by the ground 
giving way and the dream beginning. 

This I tell you as a parable. Yesterday at the 
stillest hour, the ground gave way beneath me: the 
dream began. 

The hand moved on, the clock of my life took 
P 209 


breath. Never did I hear such stillness round me. 
Thus my heart was terrified. 

Then it was said unto me without a voice : * Thou 
knowest it, Zarathustra? 1 

And I yelled with terror at that whispering, and 
the blood went out of my face, but I was speechless. 

Then it was again said unto me without a voice : 
'Thou knowest it, Zarathustra, but thou speakest 

And at last I answered like a spiteful one : ' Yea, 
I know it, but wish not to pronounce it ! ' 

Then it was again said unto me : ' Thou wishest 
not, Zarathustra? Is that true? Conceal not thyself 
behind thy spite ! ' 

But I wept and trembled like a child and said : 
' Alas, I should wish, but how can I do it ! Exempt 
me from this one thing ! It is beyond my power ! ' 

Then it was again said unto me without a voice : 
'What matter about thyself, Zarathustra! Say thy 
word and break into pieces ! ' 

And I answered : ' Alas, is it my word ? Who 
am I? I wait for a worthier one ; I am not worthy 
to be broken into pieces even from that word.' 

Then it was again said unto me without a voice : 
' What matter about thyself ? Thou art not yet hum- 
ble enough. Humility hath the thickest skin.' 

And I answered : ' What hath not been borne by 
the skin of my humility ! At the foot of my height 


I dwell. How high my summits are ? How high, no 
one hath yet told me. But well I know my valleys.' 

Then it was again said unto me without a voice: 
'O Zarathustra, he who hath to move mountains 
moveth valleys and low lands as well.' 

And I answered: 'Not yet hath my word moved 
any mountains, and what I spake hath not reached 
men. Although I went unto men, not yet have I 
reached them.' 

Then it was again said unto me without a voice : 
'What knowest thou of that? The dew falleth upon 
th grass when the night is most silent.' 

And I answered : ' They mocked at me when I 
found and went mine own way. And in truth my 
feet trembled ,then. 

And thus they spake unto me: 'Thou unlearnedst 
the path ; now thou also unlearnest walking ! ' 

Then it was again said unto me without a voice: 
' What matter for their mocking ? Thou art one who 
hath unlearnt obedience : now thou shalt command ! 

Knowest thou not who is required most by all ? 
He who commandeth great things. 

To do great things is hard ; but to command great 
things is still harder. 

This is what is most unpardonable in thee : thou 
hast the power and wantest not to rule.' 

And I answered : ' I lack a lion's voice for com- 


Then it was again said unto me like a whispering : 
' The stillest words bring the storm. Thoughts which 
come on doves' feet rule the world. 

O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of what 
must come. Thus thou wilt command and go in the 
front commanding.' 

And I answered: 'I am ashamed.' 

Then it was again said unto me without a voice : 
'Thou hast still to become a child and without sense 
of shame. 

The pride of youth is still upon thee ; very late hast 
thou become young. And whoever wanteth to become 
a child must overcome even his youth.' 

And I meditated a long while and trembled. But 
at last I said what I had said first : 'I wish not.' 

Then a laughter brake out around me. Alas, how 
the laughter tore mine intestines and ripped up my 
heart ! 

And it was said unto me for the last time : ' O 
Zarathustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not ripe 
for thy fruits ! 

Thus thou must again go into solitude ; for thou 
shalt become mellow.' 

And again there was laughter ; and then it fled. 
Then there was stillness around me, as it were, with 
a twofold stillness. But I lay on the ground, and the 
sweat flowed down my limbs. 

Now ye have heard all, and why I have to return 


into my solitude. Nothing I kept hidden from you, 
my friends. 

Ye have indeed heard it from me who am still the 
most discreet of men and will be so ! 

Alas, my friends ! I should have more to tell you, 
I should have more to give you ! Why do I give it 
not ? Am I miserly ? " 

When Zarathustra had said these words the power 
of pain and the nighness of the leavetaking from his 
friends surprised him so that he wept aloud; and no- 
body could comfort him. But at night he went off 
alone and left his friends. 


"Ye look upward when longing to be ex- 
alted. And I look downward because I am 

Which of you can at the same time laugh 
and be exalted? 

He who strideth across the highest moun- 
tains laugheth at all tragedies whether of 
the stage or of life."* 

Zarathustra, T 
Of Reading and Writing 


It was about midnight that Zarathustra took his 
way over the back of the island in order to arrive 
early in the morning at the other shore. For there 
he intended to go on board a ship. For there was a 
good roadstead at which foreign ships liked to cast 
anchor. They took with them many a one who from 
the blissful islands desired to go over sea. Now when 
thus mounting the hill, Zarathustra thought on his 
way of his many lonely wanderings from his youth, 
and how many hills and mountain ridges and summits 
had been ascended by him. 

"I am a wanderer and a mountain-climber," said 
he unto his heart; "I like not the plains, and it 
seemeth I cannot long sit still. 

And whatever may become my fate and experi- 
ence, a wandering and a mountain-climbing will 
be part of it. In the end one experienceth nothing 
but one's self. 

The time is past when accidents could happen unto 
me. And what could now fall unto my share that is 
not already mine own ! 

It merely returneth, it at last cometh home unto 



me mine own self, and whatever of it hath been 
for a long time abroad and hath been dispersed 
among all things and accidents. 

And one more thing I know : now I stand before 
my last summit and before that which hath been long- 
est reserved for me. Alas, I must ascend my hardest 
path ! Alas, I have begun my loneliest wandering ! 

But whoever is of my kin escapeth not such an 
hour, an hour which speaketh unto him : ' It is only 
now that thou goest the way of thy greatness ! Sum- 
mit and precipice these are now contained in one ! 

Thou goest the way of thy greatness. Now what 
was called hitherto thy last danger hath become thy 
last refuge ! 

Thou goest the way of thy greatness. Thy best 
courage must now be that behind thee there is no 
further path ! 

Thou goest the way of thy greatness. Hither no 
one shall steal after thee ! Thy foot itself extinguished 
the path behind thee, and above it there standeth 
written : " Impossibility." 

And if thou now lackest all ladders thou must 
know how to mount thine own head. Otherwise, how 
couldst thou ascend ? 

Thine own head, and past thine own heart ! Now 
what is mildest in thee must become hardest 

Whoever hath spared himself always, at last aileth 
because of his sparing himself so much. Let that 


which maketh hard be praised. I do not praise the 
land where there flow butter and honey! 

In order to see much it is necessary to learn to 
forget one's self. This hardness is requisite for every 

But whoever is forward with his eyes as a per- 
ceiver, how could he see more than the foremost rea- 
sons of all things ! 

But thou, O Zarathustra, desiredst to see the ground 
and background of all things. Thus thou art com- 
pelled to mount above thyself, up, upwards, until thou 
seest below thyself even thy stars ! ' 

Ay, to look down unto one's self and even unto 
one's stars : only that would I call my summit, that 
hath been reserved for me as my last summit." 

Thus Zarathustra spake unto himself, ascending, 
comforting his heart with hard little sayings ; for his 
heart was sore as it had never been. And when he 
reached the top of the mountain ridge, lo ! the other 
sea lay spread out before him. And he stood still 
and kept silence for a long time. But the night was 
cold on that height, and clear and bright with stars. 

"I recognize my lot," at last he said sadly. "Up! 
I am ready. My last loneliness hath just begun. 

Oh, that black, sad sea below me ! Oh, that black, 
night-like peevishness! Oh, fate and sea! Now I 
have to step down unto you ! 

Before my highest mountain I stand, and before 


ray longest wandering. Therefore I must first de- 
scend deeper than I ever ascended 

Descend deeper into pain, than I ever ascended 
until I reach its blackest flood. Thus my fate willeth. 
Up ! I am ready. 

'Whence spring the -highest mountains?' Thus I 
once asked. Then I learned that they spring from 
the sea. 

This testimony is written in their stones and in the 
walls of their summits. Out of the greatest depth 
the highest must rise unto its height." 

Thus spake Zarathustra on the summit of the 
mountain where it was cold. But when he came nigh 
unto the sea and at last stood alone among the cliffs, 
he had grown weary on the way and felt a deeper 
longing than ever before. 

"Now everything is asleep," said he. "The sea is 
asleep also. Full of sleep and strange its eye gazeth 
at me. 

But warm is its breath, I feel it. And I also feel 
that it dreameth. Dreamy it tosseth to and fro on 
its hard pillows. 

Hearken ! Hearken ! How it groaneth with evil 
reminiscences ! Or with evil expectations ? 

Oh, I am sad with thee, thou dark monster, and I 
am angry at myself even for thy sake. 

Alas, that my hand hath not strength enough ! Fain, 
truly, would I redeem thee from evil dreams ! " 


And while thus speaking Zarathustra laughed with 
melancholy and bitterness at himself. " What ! Zara- 
thustra ! " said he. " Art thou about to sing comfort 
even unto the sea? 

Oh, thou kind-hearted fool Zarathustra, thou who 
art all-too-full of confidence ! But thus thou hast 
always been : familiarly thou hast ever approached 
unto all that was terrible. 

Thou wert about to caress every monster. A 
breath of warm breath, a little soft shaggy hair at 

the paw, and at once thou wert ready to love and 


decoy it. 

Love is the danger of the loneliest one, love unto 
everything if it only live. Laughable, verily, is my 
folly and my modesty in love ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra laughing withal a second 
time. But then he remembered his friends he had 
left, and as though he had done wrong unto them 
with his thoughts, he was angry with himself because 
of his thoughts. And a little later it came to pass 
that the laughing one wept. From anger and longing 
Zarathustra wept bitterly. 


When the rumour spread among the shipmen that 
Zarathustra was on board the ship (for at the same 
time with him a man had come aboard who came 
from the blissful islands), great curiosity and expec- 
tation arose. But Zarathustra was silent for two days 
and was cold and deaf from sadness so that he neither 
answered looks nor questions. But on the evening 
of the second day he opened his ears again although 
he still remained silent. For there were many strange 
and dangerous things to be heard on that ship which 
came from a far distance and went far further. But 
Zarathustra was a friend of all such as make distant 
voyages and like not to live without danger. And 
lo ! from listening at last his own tongue was loosened 
and the ice of his heart brake. Then he began to 
speak thus : 

" Unto you, ye keen searchers, tempters and who- 
ever goeth aboard a ship for terrible seas with cun- 
ning sails, 

Unto you rejoicers in riddles, who enjoy the twi- 
light ; whose soul is attracted by flutes unto every 
labyrinthine chasm : 


(For ye care not to grope after a thread, with a 
coward's hand ; and where ye are able to guess ye 
hate to determine by argument?) 

Unto you alone I tell this riddle which I saw 
the vision of the loneliest one. 

Mournfully I went of late through a corpse-col- 
oured dawn, mournfully and hard with my lips 
pressed together. Not only one sun had gone down 
for me. 

A path ascending defiantly through the boulder- 
stones ; a wicked, lonely path unto which neither herb 
nor bushes spake; a mountain-path gnashed its teeth 
under the scorn of my foot. 

Striding silently over the scornful rattling of pebbles, 
crushing with its step the stone that made it slip, 
thus my foot forced its way upwards. 

Upwards in defiance of the spirit drawing it down- 
wards, into the abyss the spirit of gravity, my devil 
and arch-enemy. 

Upwards although that spirit sat upon me, half 
a dwarf, half a mole ; lame ; laming ; dropping lead 
through mine ear, thoughts as heavy as drops of lead 
into my brain. 

' O Zarathustra,' it whispered scornfully pronouncing 
syllable by syllable. 'Thou stone of wisdom! Thou 
threwest thyself high up, but every stone thrown must 

O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom, thou sling- 


stone, thou destroyer of stars ! Thyself thou threwest 
so high, but every stone thrown must fall ! 

Condemned unto thyself and thine own stoning. 
O Zarathustra, far thou threwest the stone indeed, 
but it will fall back upon thyself!' 

Then the dwarf was silent ; and that lasted long. 
But his silence pressed me down; and being thus by 
twos, verily, one is lonelier than being by one! 

I ascended, I ascended, I dreamt, I thought, but 
everything pressed upon me. Like a sick one I was, 
who is wearied by a sore torture, and who, by a sorer 
dream, is awakened out of his falling asleep. 

But a thing is within me, I call it courage. It hath 
hitherto slain every evil mood of mine. This courage 
bade me at last stand still and say : ' Dwarf ! Thou ! 
Or I!' 

For courage is the best murderer, courage that 
attacketh. For in every attack there is a stirring 
music of battle. 

But man is the most courageous animal. Thereby 
he hath conquered every animal. With stirring battle- 
music he hath conquered every pain ; but human pain 
is the sorest pain. 

Courage even slayeth giddiness nigh abysses. And 
where doth man not stand nigh abysses ! Is the very 
seeing not seeing abysses ? 

Courage is the best murderer ; courage murdereth 
even pity. But pity is the deepest abyss. As deep 


as man looketh into life, so deep he looketh into 

But courage is the best murderer, courage that 
attacketh ; it murdereth even death, for it saith : ' Was 
that life ? Up ! Once more ! ' 

In such a saying is much stirring battle-music. He 
who hath ears to hear shall hear. 

' Halt ! Dwarf ! ' said I. ' I ! Or thou ! But I am 
the stronger of us two. Thou knowest not mine 
abyss-like thought ! Thou couldst not endure it ! ' 

Then came to pass what made me lighter. For 
the dwarf jumped from my shoulder, the curious one ! 
And he squatted on a stone in front of me. There 
happened to be a gateway where we stopped. 

' Look at this gateway ! Dwarf ! ' I said further. 
' It hath two faces. Two roads meet here the ends of 
which no one hath ever reached. 

This long lane back : it stretcheth out for an eter- 
nity. And that long lane out there it is another 

They contradict each other, these roads ; they knock 
each other directly on the head. And here, at this 
gateway, they meet. The name of the gateway stand- 
eth written above : " Moment." 

But whoever would go along either of them and 


ever further and ever more remote : believest thou, 
dwarf, that these roads contradict each other eter- 
nally ? ' 

' All that is straight, lieth,' murmured the dwarf with 
contempt. ' All truth is crooked, time itself is a circle.' 

' Thou spirit of gravity ! ' said I angrily, ' do not 
make things too easy for thyself! Otherwise I let 
thee squat where thou squattest, lame leg, and I 
have carried thee high' up ! 

Behold,' I continued, ' this moment ! From this 
gateway called moment a long, eternal lane runneth 
backward: behind us lieth an eternity. 

Must not all that can run of things have run al- 
ready through this lane ? Must not what can happen 
of things have happened, have been done and have 
run past here ? 

And if all things have happened already : what dost 
thou dwarf think of this moment ? Must not this gate- 
way have existed previously also ? 

And are not thus all things knotted fast together 
that this moment draweth behind it all future things ? 
Consequently draweth itself, as well ? 

For what can run of things in that long lane out 
there, it must run once more ! 

And this slow spider creeping in the moonshine, 
and this moonshine itself, and I and thou in the gate- 
way whispering together, whispering of eternal things, 
must not we all have existed once in the past ? 


And must not we recur and run in that other 
lane, out there, before us, in that long haunted lane 
must we not recur eternally ? ' 

Thus I spake and ever more gently. For I was 
afraid of mine own thoughts and back-thoughts. Then, 
suddenly, I heard a dog howl nigh unto the place. 

Did I ever hear a dog howl like that ? My thought 
went back. Yea! When I was a child, in my re- 
motest childhood. 

Then I heard a dog howl like that. And I saw it 
as well, with its hair bristled, its head turned upwards, 
trembling, in the stillest midnight when even the dogs 
believe in ghosts 

So that I felt pity for it. For that very moment 
the full moon in deadly silence passed the house ; 
that very moment she stood still, a round glow, still 
on the flat roof, as if she stood on strange property. 

Thereby the dog had been terrified ; for dogs be- 
lieve in thieves and ghosts. And when I heard that 
howling again I felt pity once more. 

Whither had the dwarf gone ? And the gateway ? 
And the spider? And all the whispering? Did I 
dream ? Did I awake ? Between wild cliffs I stood 
suddenly, alone, lonely, in the loneliest moonshine. 

But there lay a man ! And there ! The dog, jump- 
ing, with its hair bristled, whimpering, now it saw 
me come. Then it howled again, then it cried. Did 
I ever hear a dog cry thus for help ? 


And, verily, what I saw, the like I had never seen. 
A young shepherd I saw, writhing, choking, quivering, 
with his face distorted, from whose mouth a black 
heavy snake hung down. 

Did I ever see so much loathing and pale horror 
in one face? Had he slept? Then the serpent crept 
into his throat and clung there biting. 

My hand tore at the serpent and tore in vain ! 
It was unable to tear the snake out of his throat. 
Then something in myself cried out : ' Bite ! Bite ! 

Off its head ! Bite ! ' Thus something in myself 
cried out. My horror, my hate, my loathing, my pity, 
all my good and bad cried in one cry out of me. 

Ye keen ones around me ! Ye searchers, tempters, 
and whoever of you goeth on board a ship for unex- 
plored seas with cunning sails! Ye rejoicers in riddles! 

Find out this riddle, which I beheld at that time ! 
Interpret the vision of the loneliest one ! 

For a vision it was, and a forecast. What did I 
then behold in a parable? And who is he that must 
come one day ? 

Who is the shepherd whose throat was thus entered 
by the snake ? Who is the man from whose throat 
thus the hardest, blackest thing will have to creep 
forth ? 

But the shepherd bit, as my cry counselled him ; 
and with a strong bite ! Far away he spat the snake's 
head and leaped up. 


No longer a shepherd, no longer a man, a changed 
one, one surrounded by light who laughed! Never 
on earth hath a man laughed as he did. 

O my brethren, I heard a laughter that was no 
man's laughter. And now a thirst gnaweth at me, a 
longing that is never stilled. 

My longing for that laughter gnaweth at me. Oh, 
how can I endure still to live ! and how could I en- 
dure to die now ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


His heart filled with such riddles and bitterness, 
Zarathustra went over the sea. But when he was 
away from the blissful islands and from his friends a 
four days' journey, he had overcome all his pain. Vic- 
torious and with firm feet he again stood on his fate. 
And then Zarathustra thus spake unto his rejoicing 
conscience : 

"Alone am I again and will be, alone with pure 
sky and free sea ; and again there is afternoon round 

One afternoon I found my friends for the first 
time ; another afternoon I found them a second time, 
at the hour when all light groweth stiller. 

For whatever of happiness is still on its way be- 
tween heaven and earth seeketh now for its home a 
light soul. From happiness all light hath now become 

Oh, afternoon of my life ! Once my happiness also 
went down unto the valley to look for a home. Then 
it found those open, hospitable souls. 

Oh, afternoon of my life ! What did I not give 
away in order to have one thing : this living planta- 



tion of my thoughts and this morning light of my 
highest hope ! 

Companions once the creator sought for, and chil- 
dren of his hope. And lo ! it was found that he 
could not find them unless he would create them 

Thus am I in the middle of my work, going unto 
my children and returning from them. For the sake 
of his children Zarathustra must complete himself. 

For from the bottom one loveth nothing but one's 
child and work ; and where there is great love unto 
one's self, it is the sign of child-bearing. Thus I 
found it. 

Still my .children flourish in their first spring, 
standing close together and shaken together by the 
winds, the trees of my garden and of my best soil. 

And, verily ! Where such trees stand close unto 
each other, there are blissful islands ! 

But one day I will take them out of their soil and 
plant each of them alone, that he may learn loneli- 
ness and defiance and caution. 

Gnarled and crooked and with hardness that bend- 
eth, he shall stand then by the sea, a living light- 
house of life undestroyable. 

There where the storms hustle down into the sea, 
and the snout of the mountains drinketh water, each 
of them shall one day have his day-watches and night- 
watches, for the sake of his trial and recognition. 


Recognised and tried shall he be, to find out 
whether he be of my kin and descent, whether he 
be the master of a long will, silent even when he 
speaketh, and yielding so that he taketh in giving 

In order that he one day may become my compan- 
ion and one who createth with me and ceaseth from 
work with me ; such a one as writeth my will on my 
tables for the sake of a fuller perfection of all things. 

And for his sake and the sake of his like I must 
complete myself. Therefore I now avoid my happi- 
ness and offer myself unto all misfortune, for the 
sake of my last trial and recognition. 

And, verily, it was time that I went away. And 
the wanderer's shadow, and the longest while, and the 
stillest hour, all counselled me: 'It is high time!' 

The wind blew through my key-hole saying : 
' Come ! ' My door cunningly opened of itself saying : 

But I lay fettered by my love unto my children. 
The desire laid this trap for me the desire for love 
that I should become my children's booty, and lose 
myself unto them. 

Desiring that meaneth in mine opinion to have 
lost myself. / have got you, my children J In this 
possessing, all shall be security, and nothing desiring. 

But brooding the sun of my love lay upon me ; in 
his own juice Zarathustra stewed. Then shadows and 
doubts flew past me. 


I longed for frost and winter : ' Would that frost 
and winter would make me again crack and groan,' 
I sighed. Then icy fogs rose from me. 

My past hath broken its graves ; many a pain 
buried alive hath awakened. It had merely slept its 
fill, hidden in corpse's clothes. 

Thus all reminded me by signs : 'It is time ! ' 
But I heard not; until at last mine abyss moved 
and my thought bit me. 

Oh, abyss-like thought which art my thought ! 
When shall I find the strength to hear thee dig, and 
to tremble no more ? 

Up to my throat throbbeth my heart when I hear 
thee dig ! Thy silence even will throttle me, thou 
who art silent as an abyss ! 

Never yet have I dared to call thee upward. It 
was enough that I carried thee with me ! Not yet 
was I strong enough for the utmost overflowing spirit 
and wantonness of the lion. 

Enough of horror for me thy gravity hath ever 
been. But one day yet shall I find the strength and 
the voice of a lion to call thee up ! 

When once I shall have overcome myself in this 
respect, I shall also overcome myself in that greater 
matter ; and a victory shall be the seal of my perfection ! 

In the meantime, I sail about on uncertain seas ; 
chance flattereth me with its smooth tongue ; forward 
and backward I gaze, not yet do I see any end. 


Not yet hath the hour of my last struggle come. 
Or doth it come this very moment? Verily, round 
about with insidious beauty sea and life gaze at me. 

Oh, afternoon of my life ! Oh, happiness before 
eventide ! Oh, harbour on the open sea ! Oh, peace 
in what is uncertain ! How I mistrust all of you ! 

Verily, mistrustful am I of your insidious beauty ! I am 
like unto the lover who mistrusteth a too velvety smile. 

As he pusheth before himself the most beloved 
woman, tender even in his hardness, the jealous 
lover thus I push before me this blissful hour. 

Away with thee, thou blissful hour ! In thee an 
involuntary bliss came unto me ! Willing to take 
upon me my deepest pain, here I stand. At the 
wrong time thou earnest ! 

Away with thee, thou blissful hour ! Rather settle 
down there with my children ! Hurry, and bless 
them before eventide with my happiness! 

There eventide approacheth, the sun sinketh. Gone 
my happiness ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. And he waited for his 
misfortune the whole night ; but he waited in vain. 
The night remained clear and still, and happiness itself 
drew nigher and nigher unto him. But towards the 
morning Zarathustra laughed unto his heart saying 
mockingly: "Happiness runneth after me. That re- 
sulteth from my not running after women. Happiness 
is a woman." 


" Oh, sky above me ! Thou pure ! Thou deep ! 
Thou abyss of light ! Gazing at thee, I quiver with 
god-like desires. 

To cast myself up unto thy height that is my 
profundity ! To hide myself in thy purity that is 
mine innocence ! 

A God is veiled by his beauty : thus thy stars are 
hidden by thee. Thou speakest not : thus thou show- 
est forth thy wisdom unto me. 

Silent over a roaring sea thou hast risen to-day 
unto me ; thy love and thy shame utter a revelation 
unto my roaring soul. 

That thou earnest unto me, beautiful, veiled in thy 
beauty ; that silent thou speakest unto me, manifest in 
thy wisdom 

Oh, how should I not guess all that is full of shame 
in thy soul ! Before sunrise thou earnest unto me, 
the loneliest one. 

We are friends from the beginning. Sorrow and 
horror and soil we share ; even the sun we share. 

We do not speak unto each other because we know 
too many things. We stare silently at each other; 
smiling we declare our knowledge unto one another. 



Art them not the light unto my fire ? Hast thou 
not the sister-soul unto mine insight ? 

Together we have learnt everything ; together we 
have learnt to ascend above ourselves unto ourselves 
and to smile cloudless 

To smile down cloudless from bright eyes and from 
a distance of many miles, when below us compulsion 
and purpose and guilt steam like rain. 

And when I wandered alone, for what did my soul 
hunger in nights and labyrinthine paths ? And when 
climbing mountains, for whom did I ever search, un- 
less for thee, on mountains ? 

And all my wandering and mountain-climbing, it 
was only a necessity and a make-shift of the helpless 
one. Flying is the only thing my will willeth, flying 
into thee! 

And whom could I hate more than wandering 
clouds and all that defileth thee ! And I even hated 
mine own hatred because it defiled thee! 

I bear a grudge unto wandering clouds, those 
stealthy cats of prey. They take from thee and me 
what we have in common, that immense, that infinite 
saying of Yea and Amen. 

We bear a grudge unto these mediators and mixers, 
the wandering clouds ; those half-and-half-ones who 
neither learnt how to bless nor curse from the bottom 
of their soul. 

I will rather sit in the barrel, with the sky shut 


out ; rather sit in the abyss without a sky, than see 
thee, sky of light, defiled with wandering clouds ! 

And I often longed to fix them with the jagged 
gold-wires of lightning, in order to beat the kettle- 
drum on their kettle-womb, like a thunder-clap, 

An angry kettledrum-beater, because they bereave 
me of thy Yea and Amen, thou sky above me ! Thou 
pure ! Thou bright ! Thou abyss of light ! And be- 
cause they bereave thee of my Yea and Amen ! 

For rather I love noise and lightning and the curses 
9f thunder than that deliberate doubting silence of 
cats. And among men also I hate most all eaves- 
droppers and half-and-half-ones and doubting, tardy, 
wandering clouds. 

And ' he who cannot bless shall learn how to curse ! ' 
this clear doctrine fell unto me from the clear sky; 
this star standeth on my sky even in black nights. 

But I am one who blesseth and saith Yea, if thou 
only art round me, thou pure ! Thou bright ! Thou 
abyss of light ! Then I carry my Yea-saying with 
its blessing even into all abysses. 

I have become one who blesseth and saith Yea. 
And for that purpose I struggled long and was a 
struggler, in order to get one day my hands free for 

But this is my blessing: to stand above everything 
as its own sky, as its round roof, its azure bell and 
eternal security. And blessed he who blesseth thus ! 


For all things are baptized at the well of eternity, 
and beyond good and evil. But good and evil them- 
selves are but inter-shadows and damp afflictions and 
wandering clouds. 

Verily, it is a blessing and not a blasphemy, when 
I teach: 'Above all things standeth the chance sky, 
the innocence sky, the hazard sky, the wantonness sky.' 

' Sir Hazard ' that is the earliest nobility of the 
world, which I restored unto all things. I saved them 
from the slavery of serving an end. 

This freedom and clearness of sky I put over all 
things like an azure bell, when I taught, that above 
them and through them no ' eternal will ' willeth. 

This wantonness and this folly I put in the place 
of that will when I taught : ' In all things one thing 
is impossible reasonableness ! ' 

A little of reasonableness, a seed of wisdom scattered 
from star to star, it is true, this leaven is mixed with 
all things. For the sake of folly, wisdom is mixed 
with all things ! 

A little of wisdom is well possible. But this bliss- 
ful security I found in all things : they rather like to 
dance with chance's feet. 

Oh, sky above me ! Thou pure ! Thou high ! 
Therein consisteth thy purity for me, that there 
are no eternal spider of reason and spider's nets of 

That for me thou art a dancing-ground for god-like 


chances, that for me thou art a god-like table for god- 
like dice and dice-players ! 

But thou blushest ? Spake I things unutterable ? 
Did I revile whilst intending to bless thee ? 

Or is it the shame by two which maketh thee blush ? 
Dost thou bid me go and be silent, because now 
the day cometh ? 

The world is deep, and deeper than ever day 
thought it might. Not everything is allowed to have 
language in presence of the day. But the day cometh ! 
Now therefore let us part! 

T - Oh, sky above me. Thou bashful ! Thou glowing ! 
Oh, thou my happiness before sunrise ! The day 
cometh ! Now therefore let us part ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


Having reached the firm land again, Zarathustra did 
not straightway go unto his mountains and his cave, 
but walked about much and put many questions and 
learned this and that so that he said of himself by 
way of a joke : " Behold a river which with many 
windings floweth back unto its source." For he wished 
to learn what in the meantime had gone on with man, 
whether he had become taller or smaller. And once 
he saw a row of new houses. Then he wondered and 
said : 

" What do these houses mean ? Verily, no great 
soul put them there to be its likeness ! 

Did a silly child take them out of the toy-box? 
Would that another child would put them back into 
his box ! 

And these public rooms and bed-rooms are men 
able to go in and out there ? They appear unto me 
to be made for silken dolls ; or for sweet-teeth, which 
even allow delicacies to be stolen from them." 

And Zarathustra stopped and meditated. At last 
he said sadly: "All hath become smaller! 



Everywhere I see lower doorways. He who is of 
my kin, can still pass through them, but he must 
stoop ! 

Oh, when shall I return unto my home where I 
shall have to stoop no more to stoop no more before 
the small!" And Zarathustra sighed gazing into the 

The same day he made his speech on the virtue 
that maketh smaller. 


" I pass through these folk and keep mine eyes open. 
The folk do not forgive me for not being envious of 
their virtues. 

They bite at me because I say unto them : ' For 
small folk small virtues are requisite ; ' and because 
it is hard for me to understand that small folk are 
requisite ! 

Still I am like the cock in a strange farm-yard, at 
whom even the hens bite. But for that reason I have 
no dislike unto these hens. 

I am polite unto them as I am unto all small annoy- 
ances. To be bristly towards what is small, seemeth 
unto me to be a wisdom for hedgehogs. 

They all speak of me whenever they sit round the 
fire at even. They speak of me, but no one thinketh 
of me ! 


This is the new stillness I learned : their noise 
around me spreadeth a mantle over my thoughts. 

They make a noise among themselves : ' What doth 
that gloomy cloud there ? Let us see unto it that it 
bring not a pestilence unto us ! ' 

And of late a woman clasped unto herself her child 
that was coming unto me : ' Take the children away ! ' 
cried she; 'Such eyes scorch children's souls.' 

They cough when I speak ; they are of opinion 
that coughing is an objection unto strong winds. 
They do not divine anything about the rushing of my 
happiness ! 

'We have not yet time for Zarathustra ' they say 
as an objection. But what matter about a time that 
hath 'no time' for Zarathustra? 

And if they praise me, above all, how can I fall 
asleep on their fame ? A belt of spikes is their prais- 
ing unto me; it scratcheth me even when I take it off. 

And this moreover I learned among them : the prais- 
ing one behaveth as if he restored things; in truth, 
however, he desireth to be given more ! 

Ask my foot whether it is pleased by their melody 
of praising and alluring ! Verily, unto such a time- 
beat and ticking it liketh neither to dance nor to stand 

Unto small virtue they would fain allure me and 
draw me by praising. To share the ticking of their 
small happiness, they would fain persuade my foot. 


I walk through these folk and keep mine eyes open. 
They have become smaller and are becoming ever 
smaller. And the reason, of that is their doctrine of 
happiness and virtue. 

For they are modest even in their virtue ; for they 
are desirous of ease. But with ease only modest 
virtue is compatible. 

True, in their fashion they learn how to stride and 
to stride forward. That call I their hobbling. Thereby 
they become an offence unto every one who is in a 

T And many a one strideth on and in doing so looketh 
backward, with a stiffened neck. I rejoice to run 
against the stomachs of such. 

Foot and eyes shall not lie, nor reproach each other 
for lying. But there is much lying among the small folk. 

Some of them will, but most of them are willed 
merely. Some of them are genuine, but most of them 
are bad actors. 

There are unconscious actors among them, and 
involuntary actors. The genuine are always rare, 
especially genuine actors. 

Here is little of man ; therefore women try to make 
themselves manly. For only he who is enough of a 
man will save the woman in woman. 

And this hypocrisy I found to be worst among 
them, that even those who command feign the virtues 
of those who serve. 


'I serve, thou servest, we serve.' Thus the hypoc- 
risy of the rulers prayeth. And, alas, if the highest 
lord be merely the highest servant ! 

Alas ! the curiosity of mine eye strayed even unto 
their hypocrisies, and well I divined all their fly-happi- 
ness and their humming round window panes in the 

So much kindness, so much weakness see I. So 
much justice and sympathy, so much weakness. 

Round, honest, and kind are they towards each 
other, as grains of sand are round, honest, and kind 
unto grains of sand. 

Modestly to embrace a small happiness they call 
' submission ' ! And therewith they modestly look side- 
ways after a new small happiness. 

At bottom they desire plainly one thing most of 
all : to be hurt by nobody. Thus they oblige all and 
do well unto them. 

But this is cowardice; although it be called 'virtue.' 

And if once they speak harshly, these small folk, 
7 hear therein merely their hoarseness. For every 
draught of air maketh them hoarse. 

Prudent are they ; their virtues have prudent fin- 
gers. But they are lacking in clenched fists ; their 
fmsrers know not how to hide themselves behind fists. 


For them virtue is what maketh modest and tame. 
Thereby they have made the wolf a dog and man 
himself man's best domestic animal. 


' We put our chair in the midst ' thus saith their 
simpering unto me ' exactly as far from dying gladia- 
tors as from happy swine.' 

This is mediocrity; although it be called moderation. 

I walk through these folk and let fall many a word. 
But they know neither how to take nor how to keep. 

They wonder that I have not come to revile lusts 
and vices. Nor indeed have I come to bid them be- 
ware of pick-pockets. 

They wonder that I am not ready to sharpen and 
point their prudence ; as if among them there were not 
wiselings enough, whose voices grate mine ear like 

And when I cry : ' Curse all cowardly devils within 
yourselves who would fain whine and fold their hands 
and adore,' they cry: ' Zarathustra is ungodly.' 

And so chiefly their teachers of submission cry. 
But unto their ears I rejoice to cry: 'Yea! I am 
Zarathustra, the ungodly ! ' 

These teachers of submission ! Like lice they creep 
wherever things are small and sick and scabbed. It is 
only my loathing that hindereth me from cracking them. 

Up ! This is my sermon unto their ears : ' I am 
Zarathustra, the ungodly, who ask : " Who is more 
ungodly than I am that I may enjoy his teaching?" 


I am Zarathustra, the ungodly. Where find I my 
like ? And all those are my like who give themselves 
a will of their own and renounce all submission. 

I am Zarathustra, the ungodly. I have ever boiled 
every chance in mine own pot. And not until it hath 
been boiled properly, do I give it welcome as my meat. 

And, verily, many a chance came unto me imperi- 
ously. But my will spake unto it still more so. Then 
the chance at once fell beseechingly upon its knees 

Beseeching to be given a home and heart with me, 
and persuading me flatteringly : " Behold, O Zarathus- 
tra, how ever friend cometh unto friend ! " 

But what say I where no one hath mine ears ! 
And thus I will proclaim it into all winds : 

Ye become ever smaller, ye small folk ! Ye com- 
fortable ones, ye crumble away ! One day ye will 

From your many small virtues, from your many 
small omissions, from your much small submission ! 

Too much sparing, too much yielding thus it is 
your soil ! But for the purpose of growing higli a 
tree will twist hard roots round hard rocks ! 

Even what ye omit weaveth at the weft of all 
manly future ; even your nothing is a spider's net 
and a spider living upon the blood of the future. 

And when ye take anything, it is as if ye stole it, 
ye small virtuous. But even among rogues honour 
ordereth : " One shall steal only when one cannot rob." 


"It is given" that is one of those doctrines of 
submission. But I tell you, ye comfortable ones: "// 
is taken " and evermore will be taken from you ! 

Oh, that ye would renounce that half willing and 
resolve upon idleness as one resolveth upon action ! 

Oh, that ye would understand my word: "Be sure 
to do whatever ye like, but first of all be such as 
can will! 

Be sure to love your neighbour as yourselves, 
but first of all be such as love themselves 

As love themselves with great love, with great con- 
tempt ! " Thus speaketh Zarathustra, the ungodly. 

But what say I where no one hath mine ears ! 
Here it is still an hour too early for me. 

Mine own forerunner I am among these folk, mine 
own cock-crow through dark lanes. 

But their hour will come ! And mine will come 
also ! Every hour they become smaller, poorer, less 
fertile. Poor pot-herbs ! Poor soil ! 

And soon shall they stand there like dry grass and 
prairie, and, verily, wearied of themselves and long- 
ing for fire more than for water ! 

Oh, blessed hour of lightning ! Oh, secret of the 
forenoon ! Running fires shall I one day make out 
of them and announcers with fiery tongues. 

Announce shall they one day with fiery tongues : 
' It cometh, it is nigh, the great noon ! ' ' 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" The winter, an evil guest, sitteth in my home with 
me. Blue are my hands from his friendship's hand- 

I honour him, this evil guest, but would gladly let 
him alone. Gladly I run away from him. And, if one 
runneth well one escapeth from him ! 

With warm feet and warm thoughts I run thither 
where the wind is still, unto the sunny corner of my 
mount of olives. 

There I laugh at my stern guest and yet am fond 
of him, because at home he catcheth the flies for me 
and stilleth many little noises. 

For he doth not allow a midge to sing, or still less 
two midges ; even the lane he maketh lonely so that 
the moonshine at night is afraid there. 

A hard guest is he, but I honour him, and I do 
not, like the tenderlings, pray unto the fire-idol with 
its fat womb. 

Rather chatter a little with the teeth than adore 
idols ! Thus my kin willeth. And especially I hate 
all ardent, steaming, damp fire-idols. 

Whom I love, I love better in winter than in sum- 



mer. Better I now mock at mine enemies, and more 
valiantly, now that the winter sitteth in my home. 

Valiantly indeed, even when I creep into bed. Even 
then my hidden happiness laugheth and wantoneth ; 
then laugheth my dream with its lies. 

I, a creeper ! Never in my life have I crept be- 
fore mighty ones. And if I ever lied, I lied from love. 
Therefore am I glad even in my wintry bed. 

A poor bed warmeth me better than a rich bed; 
for I am jealous of my poverty. And in winter it is 
the most faithful unto me. 

With a wickedness I begin every day : I mock at 
the winter by a cold bath. Therefore grumbleth my 
stern house-friend. 

Besides -I like to tickle him with a little wax-candle 
so that, at last, he may let the sky come out of ashen 
gray dawn. 

For particularly wicked am I in the morning. At 
an early hour, when the pail clattereth at the well, 
and the horses with heat whinny through gray lanes 

Impatiently I wait, that, at last, the clear sky may 
open unto me, the wintry sky with its beard of snow, 
the old and white-headed man 

The wintry sky, the silent, which often even keepeth 
back its sun ! 

Have I learnt from it the long bright silence? Or 
hath it learnt it from me ? Or hath either of us in- 
vented it himself? 


The origin of all good things is thousandfold. From 
lust all good wanton things spring into existence. How 
could they do so in all cases once only ! 

A good wanton thing is the long silence. Like the 
wintry sky, to look out of a bright face with round 

Like it to keep back one's sun and one's inflexible 
sun-will verily, this art and this winter-wantonness 
learned I well! 

My dearest wickedness and art is it, that my silence 
learned not to betray itself by being silent. 

Rattling with words and dice I outwit those who 
wait solemnly. My will and end shall escape all these 
severe watchers. 

That no one might look down into my bottom and 
last will, I have invented for myself the long bright 

Many a prudent one I found. He veiled his face 
and made muddy his water, that no one might look 
through it and down into it. 

But just unto him the cleverer mistrustful and nut- 
crackers came. They fished just out of his water his 
best hidden fish ! 

But the bright, the brave, the transparent for me 
they are the wisest silent ones ; they, whose bottom 
is so deep that even the clearest water doth not 
betray it. 

Thou silent wintry sky with thy beard of snow ! 


Thou white head above me with thy round eyes ! Oh, 
thou heavenly likeness of my soul and its wantonness ! 

And must I not hide myself like one who hath 
swallowed gold, in order that my soul may not be cut 
open ? 

Must I not walk on stilts in order that my long 
legs may escape the notice of all those envious and 
malicious folk around me ? 

Those souls smoky, fireside-warmed, used up, covered 
with green, sulky how could their envy endure my 

r But as things are, I show them only the ice and 
the winter on my summits and not that my mount 
tieth around itself all the girdles of the sun ! 

They hear the whistle of my wintry storms only 
and not that I also sail over warm seas, like longing, 
heavy, hot south winds. 

They have pity on my accidents and chances. But 
my word is : ' Let chance come unto me ! Innocent 
it is, as a little child ! ' 

How could they endure my happiness if I did not 
put round it accidents and winter sorrows and caps 
of polar-bear skin and covers of snowy skies ! 

If I had not pity for their pity, for the pity of 
these envious and malicious folk ! 

And if I did not sigh in their presence myself and 
chatter with cold and allow myself to be patiently 
wrapped in their pity ! 


This is the wise wantonness and good-will of my 
soul, that it doth not hide its winter and its snow 
storms ; neither doth it hide its chilblains. 

The loneliness of the one is the flight of the sick 
one ; the loneliness of the other is the flight from the 

Let them hear me chatter and sigh with the winter 
cold, all those poor, envious rogues round me ! With 
such sighing and chattering I fly from their well- 
warmed rooms. 

Let them pity me and sigh with me because of 
my chilblains. ' At the ice of perception at last he 
will freeze unto death ! ' Thus they complain. 

In the meantime with warm feet I walk crosswise 
and crookedwise over my mount of olives. In the 
sunny corner of my mount of olives I sing and mock 
at all pity." 

Thus suns: Zarathustra. 


Thus slowly passing through much folk and towns 
of many kinds by round-about ways, Zarathustra re- 
turned unto his mountains and his cave. And, behold, 
in doing so he came unawares unto the town-gate of 
the great city. But there a raging fool jumped at 
Him with his hands spread out and stood in his way. 
And this was the same fool whom the folk called 
"the ape of Zarathustra." For he had learnt from 
him some things regarding the coining and melody 
of speech, and borrowed probably not unwillingly 
from the treasure of his wisdom. The fool thus 
spake unto Zarathustra : 

" O Zarathustra, here is the great city ! Here 
thou hast nothing to seek and everything to lose. 

Why shouldst thou wish to wade through this mud? 
Have pity on thy foot ! Rather spit at the city-gate, 
and turn round! 

Here is the hell of hermit's-thoughts. Here great 
thoughts are boiled alive and cooked into morsels. 

Here all great feelings moulder. Here only such 
little feelings are allowed to rattle as rattle from 



Dost thou not smell already the shambles and 
cook-shops of the spirit ? Doth not this city steam 
with the odour of butchered spirit ? 

Dost thou not see the souls hang slack like filthy 
rags ? And they make even newspapers out of these 
rags ! 

Dost thou not hear how in this place the spirit 
hath become a play upon words ? Loathsome word- 
dishwater is vomited by it. And they make even 
newspapers out of that dishwater of words. 

They hunt each other they know not whither. 
They make each other hot and know not why. They 
jungle with their tin foil ; they tinkle with their gold. 

They feel cold and seek warmth for themselves 
in distilled waters ; they are hot and seek coolness 
in frozen spirits ; they are all sick and full of sores 
from public opinion. 

All lusts and vices are here at home. But here 
also are virtuous ones, here is much competent virtue 
in service 

Much competent virtue with fingers to write and 
hard flesh to sit and wait, blessed with small stars 
on the breast and stuffed small-haunched daughters. 

Here also are much piety and much faithful spittle- 
licking and spittle-baking before the God of hosts. 

For 'from above' the star droppeth, and the gra- 
cious spittle. Upwards every starless breast longeth. 

The moon hath her court, and the court hath its 


moon calves. Unto whatever cometh from the 
court pray the beggar-folk and all competent beggar- 

'I serve, thou servest, we serve' thus all compe- 
tent virtue prayeth upwards unto the prince, in order 
that the star which hath been deserved may at last 
be fixed on the narrow breast ! 

But the moon revolveth round all that is earthly. 
Thus the prince also turneth round what is earthliest 
of all : that is the gold of shopkeepers. 

The God of hosts is not a God of gold bars. The 
jkince thinketh, but the shopkeeper directeth ! 

By all that is light and strong and good within 
thee, O Zarathustra! Spit on this town of shop- 
keepers and turn round ! 

Here the blood floweth rotten and lukewarm and 
with a scum through all veins. Spit at the great city, 
which is the great rubbish heap where all the scum 
simmereth together! 

Spit at this town of the pressed-in souls and the 
narrow breasts, the pointed eyes and the sticky 

At this town of obtruders, impudent ones, writers 
and bawlers, of over-heated ambitious ones 

Where all that is tainted, feigned, lustful, dust- 
ful, over-mellow, ulcer-yellow, conspiring, ulcerateth 

Spit at the great city and turn round ! " 


Here Zarathustra interrupted the raging fool and 
shut his mouth. 

" Stop now ! " Zarathustra cried, " I have long 
loathed thy speech and kin ! 

Why hast thou dwelt so long nigh the swamp that 
thou wert obliged to become a frog and a toad? 

Doth not a rotten scum-like swamp-blood flow 
through thine own veins, that thou hast learnt to 
croak and slander thus? 

Why wentest thou not into the forest ? Or why 
didst thou not plough the soil ? Is not the sea full 
of green islands ? 

I despise thy despising. And if thou warnedst me, 
why didst thou not warn thyself ? 

From love alone my despising and my warning 
bird shall fly up ; but not out of the swamp ! 

They call thee mine ape, thou raging fool, but I 
call thee my grunting pig. Through grunting thou 
even spoilest my praise of folly. 

What then was it that made thee grunt first ? 
Because nobody flattered thee sufficiently, therefore 
thou sattest down at this filth in order to have reason 
to grunt much, 

In order to have reason for much revenge! For 
revenge, thou idle fool, is all thy raging. Truly I 
have found thee out ! 

But thy foolish word doth harm unto me even 
where thou art right ! And if Zarathustra's word 


were even right a hundred times, with my word thou 
wouldst always do wrong ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. And long he gazed at the 
great city, sighed, and was long silent At last he 
spake thus : 

"I loathe this great city and not merely this fool. 
In neither is there anything to be improved, anything 
to be made worse. 

Alas, for this great city ! Would I could see now 
the pillar of fire by which it will be burnt ! 

For such pillars of fire will have to precede the 
gfeat noon. But this hath its time and its own fate. 

This wisdom I give thee, thou fool, at parting : 
' Where one can love no longer, one shall pass ! ' ' 

Thus spake Zarathustra and passed the fool and 
the great city. 


"Alas! doth everything lie withered and gray that 
of late stood green and many-coloured on this meadow? 
And how much honey of hope carried I hence into 
my bee-hives ! 

These young hearts have all become old and not 
even old ! only weary, vulgar, indolent. They call it : 
'We have become pious once more.' 

Of late I saw them run out on brave feet at early 
morning. But their feet of perception have wearied, 
and now they even slander the bravery of their morn- 
ing ! 

Verily, many a one of them once lifted his feet 
like a dancer, the laughter in my wisdom making 
signs unto him. Then he changed his mind. Just 
now I have seen him creep crooked unto the cross. 

Round light and freedom they once fluttered, like 
midges and young poets. A little older, a little colder 
and quickly they have become obscurantists and 
mumblers and stay-at-homes. 

Did their heart lose its courage, because loneliness 
devoured me like a whale? Did their ear hearken 



longingly and long in vain for me and my trumpet- 
peals and herald-calls ? 

Alas ! There are always but few whose heart hath 
a long courage and long overflowing spirits ; and unto 
such the spirit remaineth patient also. But the rest 
are cowards ! 

The rest, that meaneth always the great majority, 
the every-day folk, the superabundant, the much too 
many all these are cowards ! 

Unto him who is of my kin, experiences of my 
kin will cross the way. Thus his first companions 
miSst be corpses and buffoons. 

But his second companions they will call them- 
selves his faithful ones a living hive, much love, 
. much folly, much beardless veneration. 

Whoever is of my kin among men, shall not 
tie his heart unto these faithful ones ! Whoever 
knoweth the fleeting cowardly kind of man, shall 
not believe in these springs and many-coloured 
meadows ! 

If they could do otherwise, they would will other- 
wise also. Half and half ones spoil every whole. 
That leaves wither, why lament about that! 

Let them go and fall, O Zarathustra, and lament 
not ! Rather blow among them with rustling winds ! 

Blow among these leaves, O Zarathustra, that all 
that is withered may still faster run away from 


'We have become pious once more' these apos- 
tates confess ; and some of them are too cowardly 
to confess that. 

Into their eye I gaze ; into their face and into the 
blushing of their cheeks I tell it : ' You are such as 
pray again ! ' 

But it is a shame to pray ! Not for all, but for 
thee and me and him who hath his conscience in his 
head. For thee it is a shame to pray ! 

Thou knowest it well : thy cowardly devil within 
thee who would fain fold his hands and lay them in 
his lap and have things made easier .this cowardly 
devil persuadeth thee ' there is a God ' ! 

Thereby thou belongest unto that kin that fear the 
light, that cannot find rest in the light. Now daily 
thou must put thy head deeper into night and damp ! 

And, verily, thou chosest the hour well ; for just 
now the moths have swarmed out again. The hour 
hath come for all folk that fear the light, the hour of 
even and rest, when they do not 'rest.' 

I hear it and smell it : their hour hath come for 
hunting and procession ; true, not for the wild hunts- 
man, but for a hunting tame, lame, snuffling, a hunt- 
ing of eavesdroppers and secret praying ones 

For a hunting of soulbreathing sneaks. All mouse- 
traps for hearts have been set once more ! And 


wherever I lift a curtain, a little moth rusheth forth 
from it. 

Did it squat there together with another little moth ? 
For everywhere I smell little hidden communions ; 
and wherever there are small rooms, there are new 
bigots and the odour of bigots. 

They sit for long evenings together saying : ' Let 
us become again like the little children and say " dear 
God" ' ! with their mouth and stomach spoiled by the 
pious comfit-makers. 

Or for long evenings they gaze at an artful, lurk- 
ing cross-spider, that preacheth prudence unto the 
spiders themselves and teacheth thus : ' Below crosses 
there is good spinning ' ! 

Or they sit all day with fishing rods at the swamps, 
and thereby believe themselves profound. But him who 
fisheth where there are no fish I call not even superficial ! 

Or they learn to play the harp piously and gaily 
from a hymn-writer, who would fain harp himself into 
the heart of young little women. For he hath wearied 
of old little women and their praises. 

Or they learn how to shudder with a learned half- 
madman who waiteth in dark rooms for the spirits to 
come unto him and the spirit runneth wholly away ! 

And they listen unto an old juggler-piper and 
snarler who hath wandered about and learnt from 
dreary winds the affliction of tones. Now he whistleth 
after the wind and preacheth affliction in dreary tones. 


And some of them have even become night watch- 
men. They know now how to blow horns and to 
walk about in the night and awaken old things which 
have long ago fallen asleep. 

Five words of old things I heard last night at the 
garden wall. They came from such old, dreary, dry 
night watchmen. 

'For a father he taketh not care enough of his 
children. Human fathers do it better ! ' 

' He is too old ! He no longer taketh care of his 
children at all ' thus answered the other night 

' Hath he got children ? No one can prove he hath, 
if he doth not prove it himself ! I "have wished for 
a long time he would prove it for once thoroughly.' 

' Prove ? As though he had ever proved anything ! 
Proof is hard for him. He layeth much stress upon 
folk believing him.' 

' Ay ! Ay ! Belief maketh him blessed, belief in 
him. Thus is the way of old folk ! Thus it will be 
with us too ! ' 

Thus they spake unto each other, the two old 
night watchmen and shunners of the light, and after- 
wards drearily blew their horns. Thus it came to 
pass yesternight at the garden wall. 

But my heart writhed with laughter and was like 
to break and knew not whither to go, and sank into 
the midriff. 


Verily, it will one day be my death that I choke 
with laughter, when seeing asses drunken, and hearing 
night watchmen thus doubt God. 

Hath the time not long since passed even for all 
such doubts ? Who may at this time of day awaken 
such old things which have fallen asleep and shunned 
the light? 

For the old Gods came unto an end long ago. And, 
verily, it was a good and joyful end of Gods! 

They did not die lingering in the twilight, al- 
though that lie is told ! On the contrary, they once 
upon a time laughed themselves unto death ! 

That came to pass when by a God himself the 
most ungodly word was uttered, the word : ' There 
is one God ! Thou shalt have no other Gods before 

An old grim beard of a God, a jealous one, forgot 
himself thus. 

And then all Gods laughed and shook on their chairs 
and cried : ' Is godliness not just that there are Gods, 
but no God ? ' 

Whoever hath ears let him hear." 

Thus spake Zarathustra in the town which he 
loved and which is called the " Cow of Many Colours." 
From it he had only two more days to walk in order 
to return unto his cave and his animals. And his soul 
rejoiced without ceasing over the nighness of his 
return home. 


" Oh, loneliness ! Thou my home, loneliness ! Too 
long have I lived wild in wild places afar off, to be 
able to return home unto thee without tears ! 

Now threaten me with the ringer, as mothers do ; 
now smile at me, as mothers do, now speak: 'And 
who was it that once upon a time like a stormwind 
rushed away from me ? 

Who, taking leave, called : " Too long I sat with 
loneliness ; there I unlearned silence ! " Peradventure 
thou hast now learnt that? 

O Zarathustra ! I know all and that thou wert 
more sorely forsaken among the many, thou one, 
than thou ever wert with me ! 

Forsakenness is one thing, loneliness is another 
that thou hast now learnt ! And that, among men, 
thou wilt always be wild and strange 

Wild and strange even when they love thee ; for 
above all they wish to be spared ! 

But here thou art in thine own home and house ; 
here thou canst speak out everything and pour out 
all reasons. Nothing here is ashamed of hidden, 
obdurate feelings. 



Here all things come fondling unto thy speech and 
flatter thee ; for they will ride on thy back. On 
every likeness thou ridest here unto every truth. 

Upright and sincere mayest thou here speak unto 
all things. And, verily, it soundeth like praise unto 
their ears, that one speaketh frankly with all things ! 

Another thing, however, is forsakenness. For 
dost thou remember, O Zarathustra, when thy bird 
shrieked above thee, when thou stoodest in the forest 
irresolute whither to go, unknowing, nigh unto a corpse ? 

When thou spakest : " Let mine animals lead me. 
More dangerous I found it among men than among 
animals ? " That was forsakenness ! 

And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra, when 
thou sattest on thine island ; among empty pails ; a 
well of wine, giving and spending ; among thirsty 
folk, granting and pouring out 

Until, at last, thou sattest alone thirsty among 
drunken folk and wailedst : " Is taking not more 
blissful than giving ? And stealing still more bliss- 
ful than taking?" That was forsakenness! 

And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra, when 
thy stillest hour came and drove thee away from 
thyself, when it spake with evil whispering : " Speak 
and break ! " 

When it made thee loathe all thy waiting and 
silence, and abashed thine humble courage ! That 
was forsakenness ! ' 


Oh, loneliness ! Thou my home, loneliness ! How 
blissfully and fondly speaketh thy voice unto me! 

We do not ask each other, we do not wail with each 
other, we openly go together through open doors. 

For all is open and bright with thee, and even the 
hours run here on lighter feet. For in the dark, time 
is a heavier burden than in the light. 

Here the words of being and shrines of words of 
being open suddenly. All being longeth here to 
become language, all becoming longeth here to learn 
to speak from me. 

But down there all speech is in vain! There to 
forget and to pass by are the best wisdom. That have 
I learnt now! 

He who would conceive all with men, would have 
to touch everything. But for that my hands are too 

I do not like to breathe even their breath. Alas, 
that I have lived so long amid their noise and bad 
breath ! 

Oh, blissful stillness round me! Oh, pure odours 
round me! Oh, how this stillness bringeth pure 
breath out of a deep breast ! Oh, how it hearkeneth, 
this blissful stillness ! 

But down there everything speaketh, everything 
is overheard. Let folk proclaim their wisdom by 
ringing bells, the shopkeepers in the market will 
outring them with their pennies! 


Everything with them speaketh, no one knoweth 
how to understand. Everything falleth .into the water, 
nothing falleth into deep wells any more. 

Everything with them speaketh, nothing more 
succeedeth and cometh unto an end. Everything 
doth cackle, but who will sit still on the nest and 
hatch eggs ? 

Everything with them speaketh, everything is spoken 
into pieces. And what yesterday was too hard for 
time itself and its tooth, to-day hangeth out of the 
mouths of the folk of to-day scraped and gnawed 
into pieces. 

Everything with them speaketh, everything is be- 
trayed. And what once was called secret and a 
secrecy of deep souls, to-day belongeth unto the 
trumpeters of the streets and other butterflies. 

Oh, human kind, how strange thou art ! Thou noise 
in dark lanes ! Now thou again liest bShind me ! My 
greatest danger lieth behind me! 

In sparing and pity lay always my greatest danger; 
and all human kind wisheth to be spared and endured. 

With truths kept back, with a foolish hand and a 
befooled heart, and rich with the small lies of pity 
thus have I always lived among men. 

Disguised I sat among them, ready to mistake 
myself in order to endure them, and willingly trying 
to persuade myself : ' Thou fool, thou dost not know 
men 1 ' 


One unlearneth men when living among men. Too 
much foreground is in all men what could far-seeing, 
far-searching eyes do there ! 

And when they mistook me fool that I was, I 
spared them on that account more than I spared 
myself! For I was accustomed to be hard upon 
myself, and often even took revenge on myself for 
that sparing. 

Stung all over by poisonous flies, and hollowed like 
a stone by many drops of wickedness, I sat among 
them and tried to persuade myself : ' Innocent of its 
smallness is everything small ! ' 

Especially those who call themselves ' the good ' 
I found to be the most poisonous flies. They sting in 
all innocence, they lie in all innocence. How could 
they be just unto me! 

Whoever liveth among the good, is taught to lie 
by pity. Pity maketh the air damp unto all free souls. 
For the stupidity of the good is unfathomable. 

To hide myself and my riches that I have learnt 
down there ; for every one I found to be poor in 
spirit. That was the lie of my pity, that I knew 
about every one, 

That I saw and smelt at once in every one how 
much of spirit was enough for him, and how much of 
spirit was too much for him ! 

Their stiff wise men I called them wise, not stiff. 
Thus I learned to swallow words. Their grave-diggers 


I called them searchers and examiners. Thus I 
learned to exchange words. 

The grave-diggers get sicknesses by digging. Under 
old rubbish there rest bad odours. One must not stir 
up the swamp. One must live on mountains. 

With blessed nostrils I breathe again mountain-free- 
dom. Saved, at last, is my nose from the odour of all 
human kind ! 

Tickled by sharp breezes, as it were by sparkling 
wines, my soul sneezeth. It sneezeth and in triumph 
crieth : ' God bless me ! ' ' 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" In a dream, in a last dream of the morning, I stood 
this day on a promontory, beyond the world. I held 
a balance and weighed the world. 

Alas, that the dawn came too soon unto me ! It 
waked me by its glow, the jealous one ! Jealous is it 
always of the glow of my morning dreams. 

Measurable for him who hath time ; weighable for 
a good weigher ; reachable by the flight of strong 
wings ; guessable by god-like nut-crackers ; thus my 
dream found the world to be. 

My dream, a bold sailor, half ship, half whirlwind, 
silent as butterflies, impatient as a falcon gentle . 
why had it this day patience and leisure to weigh the 
world ? 

Did my wisdom silently speak unto it, my laughing, 
wide-awake wisdom of daylight which mocketh at all 
' infinite worlds ' ? For it saith : ' Where there is force, 
there the number becometh master ; for it hath the 
greater force.' 

How securely did my dream look on this finite 



world, not curious, not greedy for old things, not 
afraid, not praying. 

As if a round apple was offered unto my hand, a 
ripe, golden apple, with a cool, smooth, velvet skin 
thus the world offered itself unto me. 

As if a tree made a sign unto me, with broad 
boughs and a strong will, bent for the weary wan- 
derer to lean against and use as a footstool thus 
stood the world on my promontory. 

As if neat hands carried towards me a chest, a 
chest open for the rapture of bashful revering eyes 
'thus the world this day offered itself unto me. 

Not riddle enough to frighten away human love ; 
not solution enough to put to sleep human wisdom ; 
a humanly good thing for me, this day, was the 
world of which such bad things are said ! 

How thankful am I unto my morning dream be- 
cause I thus weighed the world early this morning ! 
As a humanly good thing it came unto me, this dream 
and comforter of the heart ! 

And in order to do during the day what it did, 
and to learn from it its best, now I will put the three 
evilest things on the balance and weigh them in a 
humanly good spirit ! 

He who taught to bless, taught also to curse. 
Which are the three best-cursed things in the world ! 
These I will put on the balance. 

Voluptuousness, thirst of power, selfishness these 


three have hitherto been cursed best and have had 
the worst renown and been calumniated worst. These 
three I will weigh in a humanly good spirit. 

Up ! Here is my promontory, and there is the sea. 
That rolleth nigh unto me, with shaggy hair, flatter- 
ingly, the faithful old dog-monster with an hundred 
heads which I love. 

Up ! Here will I keep the balance over the rolling 
sea ! And a witness I choose also, to look at my 
weighing, thee, thou hermit-tree, which I love, with 
thy strong odour and thy broad arching boughs. 

On what bridge doth the Now go unto the One- 
day ? By what compulsion doth what is high compel 
itself to join what is low ? And what biddeth even 
the highest grow upwards ? 

Now the balance standeth equal and still. Three 
heavy questions I have thrown into it; three heavy 
answers are carried by the other scale. 

Voluptuousness unto all despisers of the body who 
wear penance-shirts, a sting and stake, and cursed as 
a ' world ' by all back-worlds-men. For it mocketh 
at, and maketh fools of, all teachers of confusion and 

Voluptuousness for the rabble the slow fire on 
which they are burnt ; for all worm-eaten wood, for 


all stinking rags, the ready oven of love-fire and 

Voluptuousness for free hearts innocent and free, 
the garden-joy of earth, the overflowing thankfulness 
of all the future towards the present. 

Voluptuousness a sweet poison unto the withered 
only, but the great invigoration of the heart and the 
reverently spared wine of wines for those who have 
the will of a lion. 

Voluptuousness the great prototype of a higher 
happiness and the highest hope. For unto many 
things matrimony is promised and more than matri- 

Unto many things which are stranger unto each 
other than man and woman are. And who would 
perceive completely how strange man and woman are 
unto each other! 

Voluptuousness but I will have railings round my 
thoughts and even round my words, that swine and 
enthusiasts may not break into my gardens ! 

Thirst of power the glowing scourge of the hardest 
in hardness of heart ; the horrid torture reserved for 
the very cruellest ; the gloomy flame of living pyre. 

Thirst of power the malicious gadfly which is 
being set on the vainest peoples ; the scorner of all 
uncertain virtue ; that which rideth on every horse 
and on every pride. 

Thirst of power the earthquake that breaketh, and 


by breaking openeth, all that is rotten and hollow ; 
the rolling, grudging, punishing breaker of whited 
sepulchres ; the shining interrogation mark beside pre- 
mature answers. 

Thirst of power before the glance of which man 
creepeth and ducketh and slaveth and becometh lower 
than serpent or swine, until at last the great contempt 
crieth out of him. 

Thirst of power the terrible teacher of the great 
contempt which preacheth : ' Away with thee ! ' in 
the very face of cities and empires, until a cry 
cometh out of themselves : ' Away with me ! ' 

Thirst of power which alluring mounteth self- 
contented heights up unto the pure and lonely, glow- 
ing like a love that, alluring, painteth purple blisses 
on earthly heavens. 

Thirst of power but who could call it thirst, if 
what is high longeth to step down for power ! Verily, 
there is nothing sick or suppurative in such a long- 
ing and stepping down ! 

That the lonely height may not for ever be lonely 
and self-contented ; that the mount may come unto 
the valley, and the winds of the height unto the low 
lands ! 

Oh ! who could find the right Christian name and 
name of virtue for such a longing ! ' Giving virtue ' 
thus the unutterable was once called by Zarathustra. 

And then it also came to pass and, verily, to 


pass for the first time, that his word praised blessed 
selfishness, whole, healthy selfishness that springeth 
from a mighty soul 

From a mighty soul, part of which is the high 
body, the beautiful, victorious, recreative, round which 
everything becometh a mirror 

The flexible, persuading body, the dancer whose 
likeness and summary is the self-joyful soul. The 
self-joy of such bodies and souls calleth itself 'virtue.' 

With its words of good and bad such a self-joy 
protecteth itself as with sacred groves. With the 
narfies of its happiness it banisheth from itself all 
that is contemptible. 

Away from itself it banisheth all that is cowardly. 
It saith : ' Bad that meaneth cowardly ! ' Contempti- 
ble appeareth unto it the ever sorrowful, sighing, 
miserable one, and whoever collecteth even the small- 
est advantage. 

It despiseth all wisdom happy in misery. For, 
verily, there is also wisdom that flourisheth in dark- 
ness, a wisdom of night-like shadows which ever sigh- 
eth : ' All is vain ! ' 

The shy mistrusting is regarded as inferior, and 
whoever wanteth oaths instead of looks and hands ; 
including all all-too-mistrustful wisdom ; for such is 
the way of cowardly souls. 

As lower still it regardeth him who is. quick to 
oblige, dog-like, who at once lieth down on his back, 


who is submissive ; and there is also wisdom that is 
submissive and dog-like and pious and quick to oblige. 

Hateful and loathsome unto it is he who careth 
not to defend himself, who swalloweth down poison- 
ous spittle and evil looks, the all-too-patient one, the 
sufferer of everything, the all-too-contented one ; for 
that is the way of slaves. 

Whether one be servile before Gods and divine 
kicks ; whether he be so before men and silly human 
opinions at all the slave tribe it spitteth, that blessed 
selfishness ! 

Bad thus it calleth all that is broken and nig- 
gardly-servile, unfree blinking eyes, pressed-down hearts, 
and that false yielding tribe that kisseth with broad 
cowardly lips. 

And spurious wisdom thus selfishness calleth all 
the quibbles of slaves and old men and weary ones ; 
and in particular the whole bad, mad, over-witty 
priest-foolishness ! 

The spurious wise men, however, all the priests, 
the weary of the world, and those whose souls are 
of the tribe of women and slaves, oh ! how well 
hath their play ever abused selfishness ! 

And this very thing, to ill-use selfishness, was pro- 
claimed to be virtue and to be called virtue ! And 
' unselfish ' thus, with good reason, all those cowards 
weary of the world and cross-spiders wished to be ! 

And for all those the day now cometh, the change, 


the sword of judgment, the great noon. Then much 
shall become apparent ! 

And he who proclaimeth the I whole and holy, and 
selfishness blessed, a prophet indeed, saith also what 
he knoweth : ' Behold, it cometh, it is nigh, the great 
noon ! ' ' 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" My gift of the gab is of the folk. Too coarsely 
and heartily for angora-rabbits I speak. And still 
stranger my word soundeth unto all ink-fish and pen- 

My hand is a fool's hand. Woe unto all tables 
and walls, and whatever hath space left for fools' orna- 
ments, fools' scribbling ! 

My foot is a horse foot. With it I trample and 
trot over logs and stone, crosswise and straight over 
the fields, and I am the devil's with lust in all my 
fast running. 

My stomach is it an eagle's stomach ? For it 
liketh best to eat lamb's flesh. But certainly it is a 
bird's stomach. 

Fed on innocent and few things, ready and impatient 
to fly, to fly away that is now my way. How should 
not something of birds' ways be in it ! 

And in particular, that I am an enemy unto the 
spirit of gravity, that is a bird's way. And, verily, a 
mortal enemy, an arch-enemy, a born fiend ! Oh ! 



whither hath mine enmity not already flown and 
strayed ? 

Of that I could sing a song and will sing it, although 
I am alone in an empty house and must sing it unto 
mine own ears. 

True, there are other singers, whose throat is 
softened only, whose hand becometh talkative only, 
whose eye expressive only, whose heart awake only, 
when the hall is well filled. I am not like unto them. 


He who one day will teach men to fly, hath moved 
all landmarks. 

All landmarks will themselves fly into the air, the 
earth will be baptized anew by that man as 'the 
light one.' 

The ostrich bird runneth faster than the swiftest 
horse, but even it putteth its head heavily into the 
heavy ground. So doth man who cannot yet fly. 

Earth and life are called heavy by him ; thus the 
spirit of gravity willeth ! But whoever intendeth to 
become light and a bird, must love himself; thus 
teach 7. 

True, not with the love of the sick and suppurative. 
For with them stinketh even love unto themselves ! 

One must learn how to love one's self thus I 
teach with a whole and healthy love, that one may 


find life with one's self endurable, and not go gadding 

Such a gadding about baptizeth itself 'love unto 
one's neighbour.' With this word folk have lied best 
hitherto and dissembled best, and in particular those 
whom all the world felt to be heavy. 

And, verily, it is no commandment for to-day and 
to-morrow, to learn how to love one's self. It is rather 
the finest, cunningest, last and most patient of arts. 

For unto him who possesseth it, all that is possessed 
is well hidden ; and of all treasure pits one's own is 
digged out last. Thus the spirit of gravity causeth it 
to be. 

Almost in the cradle we are given heavy words and 
values. ' Good ' and ' evil ' that cradle-gift is called. 
For its sake we are forgiven for living. 

And for that end one calleth the little children unto 
one's self, to forbid them in good time to love them- 
selves. Thus the spirit of gravity causeth it to be. 

And we we carry faithfully what we are given, 
on hard shoulders over rough mountains ! And when 
perspiring, we are told : ' Yea, life is hard to bear ! ' 

But man himself only is hard to bear ! The reason 
is that he carrieth too many strange things on his 
shoulders. Like the camel he kneeleth down and 
alloweth the heavy load to be put on his back 

In particular the strong man who is able to bear 
the load, who is possessed by reverence. Too many 


strange, heavy words and values he taketh upon his 
shoulders. Now life appeareth unto him to be a 

And, verily ! Even many things that are one's own, 
are hard to bear ! And many inward things in man are 
like unto the oyster, i.e., loathsome and slippery and 
difficult to catch 

So that a noble shell with noble ornaments must 
plead for it. But even this art requireth to be learnt, 
to have a shell and beautiful semblance and cunning 
blindness ! 

Again concerning many things in man there is 
deceit, in that many a shell is inferior and sad and 
too much a shell. Much hidden kindness and power 
is never found out ; the most precious dainties find 
no tasters ! 

Women, the most precious of them, know that : a 
little fatter, a little leaner oh, how much fate lieth 
in so little ! 

Man is difficult to discover, and hardest of all unto 
himself. Often the spirit lieth over the soul. Thus 
the spirit of gravity causeth it to be. 

But he hath discovered himself who saith : ' This is 
my good and evil.' Thereby he hath made mute the 
mole and dwarf who saith : ' Good for all, evil for all.' 

Verily, neither like I such as call everything good 
and this world even the best. Such I call the all- 


All-contentedness that knoweth how to taste every- 
thing that is not the best taste ! I honour the 
obstinate, fastidious tongues and stomachs which have 
learnt to say : ' I ' and ' Yea ' and ' Nay.' 

To chew and digest everything that is the proper 
way of swine. To say always Hee-haw that hath 
been learnt by the ass alone and creatures of his 
kidney ! 

Deep yellow and hot red thus my taste willeth. 
It mixeth blood with all colours. But whoever 
painteth his house white betrayeth unto me a soul 
painted white. 

Some fall in love with mummies, others with ghosts ; 
both are alike enemies unto all flesh and blood. Oh, 
how contrary are they both unto my taste ! For I 
love blood. 

And not there will I stay and dwell where every- 
body spitteth and bespattereth ; that is my taste. 
Rather would I live among thieves and perjured ones. 
No one carrieth gold in his mouth. 

But still more repugnant unto me are all lick- 
spittles ; and the most repugnant beast of a man I 
have found, I have baptized parasite. It would not 
love and yet would live by love. 

I call every one unblessed who hath only one 
choice, to become an evil beast or evil subduer of 
beasts. With such I would not build tabernacles. 

Unblessed also call I those who must always wait. 


They are contrary unto my taste all the publicans 
and shopkeepers and kings and other keepers of 
lands and shops. 

Verily, I have also learnt to wait, and from the 
bottom, but only to wait for myself. And I learned 
to stand and to walk and to run and to jump and to 
climb and to dance over all things. 

But this is my teaching : whoever wisheth to learn 
to fly one day, must first learn to stand and walk and 
run and climb and dance. One doth not learn flying 

by flying! 
l By ladders of rope I learned to climb up unto 

many a window ; with swift legs I climbed up high 
masts. To sit on high masts of perception seemed 
unto me no small bliss, 

To flicker on high masts like small flames 
although a small light, yet a great comfort for sailors 
driven out of their course and for shipwrecked folk ! 

By many ways and modes I have come unto my 
truth; not on one ladder I climbed up unto the 
height, where mine eye roveth into my distance. 

And I have always asked other folk for the way 
unwillingly. That hath ever been contrary unto my 
taste ! Rather have I asked and tried the ways for 

A trying and asking hath all my walking been. 
And, verily, one must also learn how to answer such 
questioning ! But that is my taste 


No good, no bad, but my taste, for which I have 
neither shame nor concealment. 

' This is my way, where is yours ? ' I answered 
unto those who asked me 'for the way.' 'For the 
way existeth not ! ' ' 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


" Here I sit and wait ; round me old broken tables 
and new tables half written upon. When cometh 
mine hour? 

'The hour of my stepping down, of my destruction. 
For once more will I go unto men. 

For that wait I now ; because first of all the signs 
must appear unto me that it is mine hour, namely 
the laughing lion with the flock of doves. 

In the meantime I speak unto myself as one who 
hath time. Nobody telleth me new things so that I 
tell mine own self unto myself. 

When I came unto men, I found them sitting on 
an old conceit. All of them thought they had known 
long what was good and evil unto man. 

All speech about virtue appeared unto them to be 
an old weary thing, and he who wished to sleep well, 
spake of ' good ' and ' evil ' before going to bed. 



This sleeping I disturbed when teaching that no 
one knoweth yet what is good and evil, unless he 
be a creator ! 

But a creator is he who createth man's goal and 
giveth earth its significance and its future. It is he 
alone who createth the fact that things are good and evil. 

And I bid them overthrow their old chairs, and all 
seats on which that old conceit had sat. I bid 
them laugh at their great masters of virtue and saints 
and poets and world-redeemers. 

I bid them laugh at their gloomy wise men, and 
whoever had before sat warning, a black scare-crow 
on the tree of life. 

By their great street of graves I sat down, yea, 
nigh unto carrion and vultures ; and I laughed at all 
their past and its mellow, decaying splendour. 

Verily, like preachers of penitence and fools I pro- 
claimed wrath and slaughter against their great and 
small things. ' Oh, that their best things are so very 
small ! Oh, that their evilest things are so very small ! ' 
Thus I laughed. 

Thus out of me cried and laughed my wise longing, 
which is born on mountains, a wild wisdom, verily ! 
my great longing with its roaring wings. 

And often it tore me off and upward and away, and 
that in the midst of laughing. Then meseemed I flew 
shuddering, an arrow through a rapture drunk with 


Out into remote futures, not yet seen by any dream ; 
into hotter souths than artists ever dreamt ; thither 
where Gods dancing are ashamed of all clothing ; 

(So I say to use a simile, and poet-like halt and 
stammer. And, verily, I am ashamed that I still need 
to be a poet ! ) 

Where all becoming seemed unto me to be a dance of 
Gods and a wantoning of Gods, and the world to be left 
loose and wantonly flying back unto itself, 

As an eternal fleeing of many Gods from themselves 
and seeking themselves again ; as the blessed self-con- 
tradicting, hearing themselves again, and belonging 
unto themselves once more of many Gods ; 

Where all time seemed unto me a blissful scorn for 
moments ; where necessity was freedom itself, playing 
blessedly with the sting of freedom ; 

Where I found again mine old devil and arch-fiend, 
the spirit of gravity, and all created by it : compulsion, 
institutions, exigency and consequence and purpose 
and will and good and evil ; 

(For must there not be things over which, across which 
there can be dancing ? Must there not exist moles 
and heavy dwarfs, for the sake of the light, the lightest ?) 

There also I picked up from the way the word 
' beyond-man,' and the concept that man is a some- 
thing which must be surpassed, 


That man is a bridge and not a goal praising him- 
self as blessed because of his noon and evening, as a 
way unto new morning reds 

The Zarathustra-word of the great noon, and what- 
ever else I hung up over man like second purple 
evening reds. 

Verily, new stars also I made them see, and new 
nights ; and over clouds and day and night I spread 
out laughter like a many-coloured tent. 

I taught them all my fancying and planning : to 
compose into one thing and carry together whatever 
is fragmentary in man and riddle and dismal chance 

As a poet, solver of riddles and redeemer of chance, 
I taught them to work at the future and to redeem all 
that hath been by creating. 

To redeem what is past in man and to transvalue 
every ' It was ' until will saith : ' Thus I willed ! Thus 
shall I will ' 

This I publicly called redemption, this alone I 
taught them to call redemption. 

Now I wait for my redemption, that I may go 
unto them for the last time. 

For once more will I go unto men. Among them 
will I perish, dying will I give them my richest gift ! 

I learned that from the sun when he goeth down, 
the over-rich one. Then he poureth gold into the sea, 
out of his unexhaustible wealth 

So that the poorest fisherman even roweth with a 


golden oar ! For this I saw once, and gazing upon it 
wearied not of tears. 

Like the sun Zarathustra will go down. Now he 
sitteth here and waiteth ; round him old broken tables 
and new tables half written upon. 

Behold, here is a new table ! But where are my 
brethren to carry it down unto the valley and into 
hearts of flesh ? 

Thus my great love unto the most remote com- 
mandeth : ' Spare not thy neighbour! Man is a some- 
thing that must be surpassed.' 

There are numerous ways and modes of surpassing. 
See thou unto it ! But only a buffoon thinketh : ' Man 
can be passed over also' 

Surpass thyself even in thy neighbour ! And a 
right thou canst take as a prey thou shalt not allow 
to be given ! 

What thou dost, no one can do unto thee. Behold, 
there is no retaliation. 

Whoever cannot command himself, shall obey. And 
many a one can command himself; but there lacketh 
much in his obeying himself! 


Thus willeth the tribe of noble souls : they wish 
not to have anything for nothing, least of all, life. 


Whoever is of the mob, will live for nothing. But 
we others unto whom life gave itself, we are ever 
wondering what we shall best give in return! 

And, verily, this is a noble speech, that saith : 
'What we are promised by life, we shall keep unto 
life ! ' 

One shall not wish to enjoy one's self where one 
doth not give enjoyment. And one shall not wish 
to enjoy one's self! 

For enjoyment and innocence are the most bash- 
ful things. Neither liketh to be sought. One shall 
have them. But rather than for them, one shall seek 
for guilt and pains ! 

O my brethren, whoever is a firstling is ever sacri- 
ficed. Now we are firstlings. 

We all bleed at secret tables of sacrifice ; we all 
burn and roast in honour of old idols. 

Our best is still young. That tickleth old palates. 
Our flesh is tender, our skin is merely a lambskin 
how should we not excite old idol-priests ! 

In ourselves he still liveth, the old idol-priest who 
roasteth our best for his own dinner. Alas ! my 
brethren, how could firstlings not be sacrifices ? 

But thus our tribe willeth. And I love them who 
wish not to keep themselves. The perishing I love 
with mine entire love ; for they go beyond. 


To be true few are able to be so! And he who 
is able doth not want to be so. But least of all the 
good are able. 

Oh, these good ! Good men never speak the truth. 
To be good in that way is a sickness for the mind. 

They yield, these good, they submit themselves ; 
their heart saith what is said unto it, their foundation 
obeyeth. But whoever obeyeth doth not hear himself ! 

All that is called evil by the good, must come 
together in order that one truth be born. O my 
brethren, are ye evil enough for this truth ? 

The bold adventuring, the long mistrust, the cruel 
Nay, satiety, the cutting into what is living how 
rarely do all these come together ! But by such seed 
truth is procreated ! 

Beside the bad conscience hitherto all knowledge 
hath grown ! Break, break, ye knowing, the old tables ! 


When the water hath poles, when gangway and 
railing jump over a stream verily, no one findeth 
belief who saith : ' Everything is in stream.' 

But even churls contradict him. 'How?' say the 
churls, 'all is said to be in the stream? Poles and 
railings are evidently above the stream ! ' 


'Above the stream all is firm, all the values of 
things, the bridges, concepts, all "good" and "evil" 

all that is firm ! ' 

When even the hard winter cometh, the subduer of 
streams, then even the wittiest learn mistrust. And, 
verily, not only churls say then : ' Should perhaps 
everything stand still ? ' 

' At bottom everything standeth still ' that is a 
proper winter-doctrine, a good thing for a sterile time, 
a good comfort for winter sleepers and fireside-mopers. 

' At bottom everything standeth still.' But the 
thaw-wind preacheth the contrary ! 

The thaw-wind, a bull which is no ploughing bull, 

a raging bull, a destroyer that breaketh ice with 
wrathful horns! But ice break et/t gangways ! 

O my brethren, is not now all in stream? Have 
not all railings and gangways fallen into the water? 
Who would still cling unto ' good ' and ' evil ' ? 

' Woe unto us ! All hail unto ourselves ! The thaw- 
wind bloweth ! ' Thus preach, my brethren, through 
all lanes ! 

There is an old illusion, called good and evil. 
Round fortunetellers and astrologers, hitherto the wheel 
of that illusion hath turned. 

Once the folk believed in fortunetellers and astrol- 


ogers, and therefore they believed : ' All is fate. Thou 
shalt ; for thou must ! ' 

Then at another time they mistrusted all fortune- 
tellers and astrologers, and therefore they believed : 
'All is freedom. Thou canst; for thou wilt.' 

O my brethren, as to the stars and the future 
there hath only been illusion, not knowledge. And 
therefore, as to good and evil, there hath also been 
illusion only, not knowledge ! 


'tThou shalt not rob ! ' ' Thou shalt not commit 
manslaughter ! ' Such words were once called holy ; 
before them the folk bent their knees and heads and 
took off their shoes. 

But I ask you : Where in the world have there 
ever been better robbers and murderers than such 
holy words ? 

Is there not in all life robbing and manslaughter? 
And by calling such words holy, did they not murder 
truth itself? 

Or was it a sermon of death, to call that holy which 
contradicted all life and counselled against it? O 
my brethren, break, break the old tables ! 


My pity for all that is past is in seeing that it is 


Exposed unto the mercy, the spirit, the lunacy of 
every generation that cometh and transformeth every- 
thing that hath been into its own bridge ! 

A great lord of power could come, an artful fiend, 
with his mercy and disgrace to compel and constrain 
whatever is past, until for him it became a bridge 
and an omen and a herald and a cock-crow. 

But this is the other danger and mine other pity : 
whoever is of the mob, his memory reacheth back 
unto his grandfather; but with his grandfather time 
ceaseth to exist. 

Thus all that is past is exposed. For one day it 
might come to pass that the mob would become mas- 
ter, and all time would be drowned in shallow waters. 

Therefore, O my brethren, a new nobility is requisite 
which is opposed unto all mob and all that is tyrannic 
and writeth on new tables the word 'noble.' 

For many noble ones are requisite, and noble ones 
of many kinds, in order that there be nobility ! Or, 
as I said once in a figure : ' That exactly is godliness, 
that there are Gods, but no God ! ' 


O my brethren, I consecrate you to be, and show unto 
you the way unto a new nobility. Ye shall become pro- 
creators and breeders and sowers of the future. 

Verily, ye shall not become a nobility one might 


buy like shopkeepers with shopkeepers' gold. For 
all that hath its fixed price is of little value. 

Not whence ye come be your honour in future, but 
whither ye go ! Your will, and your foot that longeth 
to get beyond yourselves, be that your new honour ! 

Verily, not that ye have served a prince of what 
concern are princes now ? or that ye have become 
a bulwark unto that which standeth, in order that it 
might stand firmer ! 

Not that your kin hath become courtly at courts, 
and that ye have learnt to stand long hours in shal- 
low ponds, many-coloured, flamingo-like 

(For to be able to stand is a merit with courtiers ; 
and all courtiers believe that to be allowed to sit is 
part of the bliss after death !) 

Nor that a spirit, called holy, led your forefathers 
into lands of promise, which / do not praise. (For 
where there grew the evilest of all trees, the cross, 
in that land there is nothing worthy of praise!) 

And, verily, wherever this 'holy ghost' led his 
knights, always in such expeditions goats and geese 
and cross-heads and wrong-heads led the train ! 

O my brethren, not backward shall your nobility 
gaze, but forward! Expelled ye shall be from all 
fathers' and forefathers' lands ! 

Your children s land ye shall love, (be this love your 
new nobility !) the land undiscovered, in the remotest 
sea ! For it I bid your sails seek and seek ! 


In your children ye shall make amends for being 
your fathers' children. Thus ye shall redeem all that 
is past ! This new table I put over you ! 


' Wherefore live ? All is vanity. To live that 
meaneth to thrash straw. To live i.e., to burn one's 
self and yet not become warm.' 

Such ancient talk is still regarded as 'wisdom.' 
Even because it is ancient and smelleth damp, it is 
honoured the more. Even mould maketh noble. 

Children were allowed to speak thus. They fear 
the fire because it burned them ! There is much 
childishness in the old books of wisdom. 

And he who always thrasheth straw how could 
he be allowed to backbite thrashing ! With such a 
fool one would have to muzzle his mouth ! 

Such folk sit down unto dinner and bring nothing 
with them, not even a good hunger. And now they 
backbite : ' All is vanity ! ' 

But to eat well and drink well, O my brethren, is, 
verily, no vain art ! Break, break the tables of those 
who are never joyful ! 

' Unto the pure all things are pure ' thus say the 
folk. But I tell you : ' unto the swine all things be- 
come swine ! ' 


Therefore the enthusiasts and hypocrites whose 
very heart hangeth down, preach : 'The world itself 
is a filthy monster.' 

For they are all of an unclean mind; in particular 
those who have neither quiet nor rest ; unless it be 
that they see the world from the back, those back- 
worlds-men ! 

I tell it to their face, although it doth not sound 
lovely : ' Therein the world resembleth man, that it 
hath a backside, thus much is true ! ' 

There is much filth in the world, thus much is 
trtie ! But for that reason the world itself is not yet 
a filthy monster ! 

It is wisdom therein, that much in the world 
smelleth ill. Loathing itself createth wings and well- 
divining powers ! 

In the best one even, there is something loathsome. 
And even the best one is a something that must be 
surpassed ! 

O my brethren, there is much wisdom in the fact 
that there is much filth in the world ! 

Such sayings I heard pious back-worlds-men say 
unto their conscience, and, verily, without cunning or 
deceitfulness, although there is nothing more deceit- 
ful in the world, nor anything worse. 


' Let the world be the world ! Lift not even a 
finger against it ! ' 

'Let anybody who careth to do so throttle and 
sting and flay and scrape the folk ! Lift not even a 
finger against it ! Thereby they shall one day learn 
to renounce the world.' 

'And thine own reason thou shalt thyself throttle 
and choke it ; for it is a reason of this world. Thereby 
thou thyself learnest to renounce the world.' 

Break, break, O my brethren, these old tables of 
the pious ! Break into pieces by your speech the 
saying of the calumniators of the world ! 


'Whoever learneth much, unlearneth all violent 
desiring.' Men whisper that to-day into one another's 
ears in all dark lanes. 

'Wisdom maketh weary. Nothing is worth while. 
Thou shalt not desire ! ' This new table I found 
hanging even in open markets. 

Break, O my brethren, break also this new table ! 
The weary of the world have hung it up, and the 
preachers of death, and the jailers also. For, behold, 
it is moreover a sermon unto slavery ! 

Because they learned badly and learned not the 
best, and learned everything too early and everything 
too quickly because they dined badly, they have 
got that soured stomach. 


For their mind is a soured stomach. It counselleth 
them unto death ! For, verily, my brethren, the mind 
is a stomach ! 

Life is a well of delight. But all wells are poisoned 
for him out of whom the soured stomach speaketh, 
the father of affliction. 

To perceive that is lust unto him who hath 
the will of a lion ! But he who hath become 
weary, is himself 'willed' only; with him all waves 

And thus it is always the way of weak men : they 
losfe themselves on their ways. And at last their 
weariness asketh : ' Wherefore have we ever gone 
ways ! All is the same ! ' 

Unto their ears it soundeth lovely when there is 
preached : ' Nothing is worth while ! Ye shall not 
will ! ' But this is a sermon unto slavery. 

O my brethren, as a fresh roaring wind Zarathustra 
cometh unto all who are weary of the way. Many 
noses he will make sneeze. 

Even through walls bloweth my free breath, and 
into prisons and imprisoned spirits ! 

Willing delivereth ! For willing is creating. Thus 
I teach. And only for the purpose of creating ye 
shall learn ! 

And even the learning ye shall only learn from 
me, the learning well ! Whoever hath ears, let him 
hear ! 



There standeth the boat. Over there perhaps is 
the way into great nothingness. But who will step 
into this ' perhaps ' ? 

No one of you will step into the boat of death ! 
How then can ye be weary of the world! 

Weary of the world ! And ye did not even part 
with earth ! Longing I found you still for earth, 
fallen in love with your own weariness of earth ! 

Not in vain your lip hangeth down. A small 
earthly desire still sitteth on it ! And in the eye 
doth there not swim a little cloud of unforgotten 
earthly delight ? 

There are on earth many good inventions, some 
useful, some agreeable. For their sake earth is to 
be loved. 

And all kinds of things so well invented are there, 
that they are like a woman's breast, alike useful and 

But ye weary ones of the world ! Ye lazy ones of 
earth ! Ye should be lashed with whips ! With whip 
lashes your legs should be made brisk again. 

For if ye are not sick and worn out wretches of 
whom earth is weary, ye are sly tardigrades or 
dainty-mouthed, hidden lust-cats. And if ye wish 
not to run again gaily, ye shall pass away ! 

Unto the incurable, one shall not go to be physi- 


cian. Thus teacheth Zarathustra. Thus ye shall pass 
away ! 

But more courage is requisite for making an end 
than for making a new verse. That is known unto 
all physicians and poets. 


O my brethren, there are tables created by weari- 
ness, and tables created by laziness, rotten laziness. 
And although they speak equally, they will not be 
heard equally. 

Look here at this languishing one ! Only a span 
is he distant from his goal, but from weariness he 
hath defiantly put himself down into the dust, the 
courageous one ! 

From weariness he yawneth at his way, and at earth, 
and at his goal, and at himself. No further step will 
he take, this courageous one ! 

Now the sun gloweth down on him, and the dogs 
lick his sweat. But he lieth there in his defiance and 
will rather die of thirst. 

A span distant from his goal will he die of thirst ! 
Verily, by his hair ye will have to pull him into his 
heaven, this hero ! 

Better it is, ye let him lie where he hath laid him- 
self, that sleep unto him may come, the comforter 
with a cool, murmuring rain. 

Let him lie until he awake himself, until he him- 


self gainsay all weariness and all that weariness taught 
him to teach ! 

Only, my brethren, drive the dogs away from him, 
the lazy sneaks, and all the swarming flies 

All the swarming flies, the 'educated,' who feast 
luxuriously on the sweat of every hero ! 


I draw around me circles and holy boundaries. 
Ever fewer mount with me ever higher mountains. I 
build a mountain chain out of ever holier mountains. 

But wherever ye mount with me, O my brethren, 
see to it that no parasite mount with you ! 

Parasite that is a worm, a creeping, bent one that 
wisheth to fatten upon your hidden sores and wounds. 

And this is its art, that it findeth out ascending 
souls, where they are weary. In your sorrow and bad 
mood, in your tender shame, he buildeth his loathsome 

Wherever the strong is weak, and the noble much- 
too-mild there he buildeth his loathsome nest. The 
parasite dwelleth where the great one hath small 
hidden wounds. 

What is the highest kind of all that is, and what 
is the lowest ? The parasite is the lowest kind. But 
whoever is of the highest kind feedeth the most 


For that soul which hath the longest ladder and 
can step down deepest how should not the most 
parasites sit on it? 

The most comprehensive soul which can within itself 
go furthest and stray and rove ; the most necessary 
one which from lust precipitateth itself into chance ; 

The being soul which diveth down into becoming ; 
the having one that longeth to get into willing and 
desiring ; 

The soul fleeing from itself and catching itself in 
the widest circle; the wisest soul, unto which foolish- 
ndss speaketh sweetest ; 

The soul that loveth itself most, in which all things 
have their streaming and back streaming and ebb and 
flood ! Oh ! how should the highest soul not have the 
worst parasites ? 


O my brethren, say, am I cruel ? But I say : ' What 
is falling already, shall be struck down.' 

The All of to-day it falleth, it decayeth. Who 
would keep it ? But I, I will strike down it be- 
sides ! 

Know ye the voluptuousness that rolleth stones into 
steep depths? These men of to-day look at them, 
how they roll into my depths ! 

A prelude I am of better players, O my brethren ! 
An example ! Act after mine example ! 


And him whom ye do not teach to fly, teach how 
to fall quicker! 


I love the brave. But it is not enough to be a 
swordsman, one must also know against whom to use 
the sword ! 

And often there is more bravery in one's keeping 
quiet and going past, in order to spare one's self for 
a worthier enemy ! 

Ye shall have only enemies who are to be hated, 
but not enemies who are to be despised. Ye must 
be proud of your enemy. Thus I taught you once 

Ye shall reserve yourselves for the worthier enemy, 
O my friends ! Therefore ye have to pass by many 

In particular ye have to pass by much rabble that 
maketh a din of people and peoples in your ears. 

Keep your eye pure from their For and Against ! 
Much right is there and much wrong. Whoever 
looketh on, waxeth angry. 

To look on, to use one's sword in that case it is 
one and the same thing. Therefore depart into the 
forests and put your sword to sleep ! 

Go your ways. And let people and peoples go 
theirs ! Verily, dark ways, on which not a single hope 
lighteneth any longer! 


Let the shopkeeper rule there where everything 
that still shineth, is shopkeepers' gold. It is no 
longer the time of kings. For what to-day calleth 
itself a people, deserveth no kings. 

Behold, how these peoples now themselves act like 
shopkeepers. They seek the smallest profits out of 
every sort of rubbish. 

They lie in ambush for each other ; they obtain 
things from each other by lying in wait. That is 
called by them 'good neighbourliness.' Oh, blessed 
remote time, when a people said unto itself : ' I will 
be* master over peoples ! ' 

For, my brethren, what is best, shall rule ; what is 
best, will rule ! And where the teaching soundeth 
different, the best is lacking. 


If they had bread for nothing, alas ! for what 
would they cry ! Their maintenance that is their 
proper entertainment. And they shall have a hard 

Beasts of prey they are. In their ' working ' there 
is even preying, in their ' earning ' there is even 
outwitting ! Therefore they shall have a hard life ! 

Thus they shall become better beasts of prey, finer, 
cleverer, more like man. For man is the best beast 
of prey. 


From all animals man hath plundered their virtues. 
The reason is that man hath had the hardest life of 
all animals. 

Only the birds surpass him. And if man would 
learn to fly in addition, alas, whither would his lust 
of prey fly upwards ! 


Thus would I have man and woman : fit for warfare 
the one, fit for giving birth the other, but both fit 
for dancing with head and legs. 

And be that day reckoned lost on which we did 
not dance once ! And be every truth called false 
with which no laughter was connected ! 


Your concluding of marriages see to it that it 
be not a bad concluding! Ye have concluded too 
quickly ; thus followeth therefrom adultery ! 

And yet better is adultery than bending marriage, 
lying in marriage ! Thus spake a woman unto me : 
' True, I brake marriage, but first marriage brake 
me ! ' 

Ill-coupled ones I always found to be the worst 
revengeful. They take revenge on the whole world, 
because they no longer walk about singly. 

Therefore I will that honest ones speak unto each 


other : ' We love each other. Let us see to it that we 
keep ourselves in love ! Or shall our mutual promise 
be a mistake ? ' 

' Give us a term and a small marriage, that we 
may see to it whether we are fit for the great mar- 
riage ! It is a great thing to be always in pairs ! ' 

Thus I counsel all honest ones. And what would 
be my love unto beyond-man and unto all that is to 
come, if I should counsel and speak differently ! 

Not only shall ye propagate yourselves, but ye 
shall propagate upivards. Thereto, O my brethren, 
let' the garden of marriage aid you ! 


Lo! he who became wise concerning old origins, 
will at last seek for the fountains of the future and 
for new origins. 

O my brethren, it will not be long that new peoples 
will arise and new springs gush down into new 

For the earthquake encumbereth many wells, and 
createth much languishing. That will also bring to 
light inner powers and hidden things. 

The earthquake maketh new springs appear. In 
the earthquake of old peoples new springs gush 

And whoever crieth : ' Behold, here is one well for 


many thirsty ones, one heart for many longing ones, 
one will for many tools ' round him gathereth a 
people, i.e., many trying. 

Who is able to command, who is obliged to obey 
that is tested there ! Alas, with what long seeking 
and guessing and failing and learning and testing 
anew ! 

Human society it is an attempt ; thus I teach, 
it is a long seeking. But it seeketh the commander! 

An attempt, O my brethren ! And no ' contract ' ! 
Break, break such a word of soft-hearts and half and 
half ones ! 


O my brethren! With whom is the greatest 
danger for the whole human future ? Is it not with 
the good and just ? 

Because they are those who speak and feel in their 
heart: 'We know already what is good and just; we 
have it in addition. Alas, for those who still seek 
for it!' 

And whatever harm the wicked may do, the harm 
of the good is the most harmful harm ! 

And whatever harm the calumniators of the world 
may do, the harm of the good is the most harmful 
harm ! 

O my brethren, once upon a time a man looked into 


the heart of the good and just and said : ' They are 
the Pharisees.' But he was not understood. 

The good and just themselves were not allowed 
to understand him. Their mind was imprisoned in 
their good conscience. The stupidity of the good is 
unfathomably clever. 

But this is the truth : the good must be Pharisees. 
They have no choice ! 

The good must crucify him who inventeth his own 
virtue ! That is the truth ! 

But the second one who discovered their land, the 
land, heart, and soil of the good and just he it was 
who asked : ' Whom do they hate most ? ' 

The creator they hate most, him who breaketh tables 
and old values, the breaker. They call him a criminal. 

For the good cannot create. They are always the 
beginning of the end. 

They crucify him who writeth new values on new 
tables ; they sacrifice unto themselves the future ; they 
crucify the whole human future ! 

The good they have always been the beginning 
of the end. 


O my brethren, understood ye this word ? And 
what once I said of the last man ? 

With whom is the greatest danger for the whole 
human future ? Is it not with the good and just ? 


Break, break the good and just ! O my brethren, 
understood ye this word ? 


Ye flee from me ? Ye are terrified ? Ye tremble in 
the presence of this word? 

O my brethren, when I bade you break the good 
and the tables of the good it was then only that I 
put man on board ship for his high sea. 

Only now cometh the great terror unto him, the 
great look round, the great illness, the great loathing, 
the great sea-sickness. 

False shores and false securities ye were taught by 
the good. In the lies of the good ye were born and 
hidden. Through the good everything hath become 
deceitful and crooked from the bottom. 

But he who discovered the land 'man/ discovered 
also the land : ' human future.' Now ye shall be unto 
me sailors, brave, patient ones ! 

Walk upright in time, O my brethren, learn how 
to walk upright ! The sea stormeth. Many wish to 
raise themselves with your help. 

The sea stormeth. Everything is in the sea. Up ! 
Upwards ! Ye old sailor hearts ! 

What ? A fatherland ? Thither striveth our rudder, 
where our children's land is. Out thither, stormier 
than the sea, our great longing stormeth ! 


2 9 

' Why so hard ? ' said once the charcoal unto the 
diamond, ' are we not near relations ? ' 

Why so soft ? O my brethren, thus I ask you. 
Are ye not my brethren ? 

Why so soft, so unresisting, and yielding ? Why 
is there so much disavowal and abnegation in your 
hearts ? Why is there so little fate in your looks ? 

And if ye are unwilling to be fates, and inexorable, 
how could ye conquer with me someday ? 

And if your hardness would not glance, and cut, and 
chip into pieces how could ye create with me someday? 

For all creators are hard. And it must seem blessed- 
ness unto you to press your hand upon millenniums as 
upon wax, 

Blessedness to write upon the will of millenniums as 
upon brass, harder than brass, nobler than brass. 
The noblest only is perfectly hard. 

This new table, O my brethren, I put over you : 
Become hard ! 


O, thou my will ! Thou change of all needs, thou, 
my necessity ! Save me from all small victories ! 

Thou decree of my soul called fate by myself! 
Thou within-me ! Thou above-me ! Save and spare 
me for one great fate ! 


And thy last greatness, O my will, spare for thy 
last, in order to be inexorable in thy victory ! Alas, 
who was not conquered by his victory ! 

Alas ! whose eye did not grow dim in this drunken 
dawn ? Alas ! whose foot did not stagger and forget 
how to stand in victory ! 

That one day I may be ready and ripe in the great 
noon ; ready and ripe like glowing ore, like a cloud 
pregnant with a lightning, and a swelling milk-udder; 

Ready unto myself and unto my most secret will ; 
a bow eager for its arrow ; an arrow eager for its 

A star, ready and ripe in its noon, glowing, perfo- 
rated, blessed with destroying arrows of the sun. 

A sun himself and an inexorable will of a sun, ready 
for destroying in victory ! 

O will, thou change of all needs, thou my necessity ! 
Reserve me for one great victory ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


One morning, not long after his return unto the 
cave, Zarathustra jumped up from his couch like a 
madman. He cried with a terrible voice, and behaved 
9 if some one else was lying on the couch and would 
not get up from it. And so sounded Zarathustra's 
voice that his animals ran unto him in terror, and that 
from all caves and hiding-places which were nigh unto 
Zarathustra's cave, all animals hurried away, flying, 
fluttering, creeping, jumping, according to the kind of 
foot or wing they had been given. But Zarathustra 
spake these words : 

" Up, abyss-like thought, from my depth ! I am thy 
cock and morning-dawn, O sleepy worm ! Up ! up ! 
My voice shall crow thee awake ! 

Untie the fetter of thine ears ! hearken ! For I will 
hear thee ! Up ! up ! Here is thunder enough so that 
even graves learn to listen ! 

And wipe the sleep and all that is dim and blind 
from thine eyes ! Listen unto me with thine eyes 
also ! My voice is a medicine even for the born blind. 


And if thou art once awake, thou shalt remain 
awake for ever. Not my way is it to awaken great- 
grandmothers from sleep in order to ask them to sleep 
on ! 

Thou mo vest, thou stretchest thyself, thou rattiest ? 
Up ! Up ! Not rattle speak thou shalt unto me ! 
Zarathustra, the ungodly, calleth thee ! 

I, Zarathustra, the advocate of life, the advocate of 
suffering, the advocate of the circle I call thee, my 
most abyss-like thought ! 

Hail unto me ! Thou comest ; I hear thee ! Mine 
abyss speaketh. My last depth have I turned round 
unto the light ! 

Hail unto me! Come nigh! Shake hands ha! 
Leave me, hahaha ! Loathing, loathing, loathing ! 
Alas, for me!" 

No sooner had Zarathustra said these words than 
he fell down like one dead, and remained long like 
one dead. But when he again became conscious, 
he was pale and trembled and remained lying, and for 
a long while would neither eat nor drink. This state 
of his lasted seven days. But his animals left him not, 
day or night, unless that the eagle flew off to get food. 
And whatever prey he fetched and caught, he laid on 
Zarathustra's couch, so that at last Zarathustra was 
buried under yellow and red berries, grapes, rose 


apples, sweet-smelling pot-herbs, and pine-cones. But 
at his feet two lambs were spread which the eagle had, 
with much trouble, carried off from their shepherd. 

At last, after seven days, Zarathustra rose on his 
couch, took a rose apple in his hand, smelt it and 
found its odour sweet. Then his animals thought the 
time had come for speaking unto him. 

" O Zarathustra," said they, " now thou hast lain like 
that for seven days, with heavy eyes. Wilt thou not 
now stand again on thy feet ? 

Step out from thy cave ; the world waiteth for thee 
like a garden. The wind playeth with heavy odours 
longing for thee ; and all brooklets would fain run 
after thee. 

All things long for thee, because thou remainedst 
seven days alone. Step out from thy cave ! All 
things wish to be thy physicians ! 

Hath a new perception come unto thee, a sour, hard 
one ? Like a dough mixed with leaven thou didst 
lie there. Thy soul rose and overflowed all its 

"O mine animals," answered Zarathustra, "talk on 
like that and let me listen ! It refresheth me to hear 
talking like that. Where there is talk, the world lieth 
like a garden unto me. 

How lovely it is that words and tunes exist ! Are 
not words and tunes rainbows and seeming bridges 
between things eternally separated ? 


Unto each soul belongeth a different world; for 
each soul, every other soul is a back-world. 

Between things most like unto each other, semblance 
telleth the most beautiful lies. For the smallest gap 
is the most difficult to bridge over. 

For me how could there be an out-of-me ? There 
is no outside ! But we forget that when hearing any 
tunes. How lovely it is that we forget ! 

Are things not given names and tunes, in order 
that man may find recreation in things ? Speech is a 
beautiful folly. Thereby man danceth over all things. 

How lovely is all speech and all lying of tunes ! 
With tunes our love danceth on many-coloured rain- 

"O Zarathustra," then said the animals, "unto 
such as think like us, all things themselves dance. 
They come and shake hands and laugh and flee and 

Everything goeth, everything returneth. For ever 
rolleth the wheel of existence. Everything dieth, 
everything blossometh again. For ever runneth the 
year of existence. 

Everything breaketh, everything is joined anew. 
For ever the same house of existence buildeth itself. 
All things separate, all things greet each other again. 
For ever faithful unto itself, the ring of existence 

At every moment existence beginneth. Round 


every Here rolleth the ball There. The midst is 
everywhere. Crooked is the path of eternity." 

" O ye buffoons and barrel-organs," answered Zara- 
thustra and smiled again, "how well ye know what 
had to be done in seven days 

And how that monster crept into my throat and 
choked me ! But I bit its head off and spat it away 
from me. 

And ye ye have already made out of it a barrel- 
organ song ? But now I lie here, weary from that 
biting and spitting away, sick still with mine own 

And ye were the spectators of all that? O mine 
animals, are even ye cruel ? Did ye like to look at my 
great pain, as men do ? For man is the cruellest animal. 

When gazing at tragedies, bull-fights and crucifix- 
ions, he hath hitherto felt happier than at any other 
time on earth. And when he invented hell for him- 
self, lo, hell was his heaven upon earth. 

When the great man crieth, swiftly the small man 
runneth thither. And his tongue hangeth out of his 
throat from lustfulness. But he calleth it his 'pity.' 

The small man, in particular the poet, how eagerly 
doth he in words accuse life ! Hearken unto him, but 
fail not to hear the lust which is contained in all that 
accusing ! 

Such accusers of life they are overcome by life 
with a blinking of the eye. ' Thou lovest me ? ' saith 


the impudent one. ' Wait a little ; I have no time 
yet for thee.' 

Man is the cruellest animal towards himself. And 
in all who call themselves 'sinners' and 'bearers of 
the cross ' and ' penitents,' ye shall not fail to hear 
the lust contained in that complaining and accusing ! 

And myself ? will I thereby be the accuser of 
man? Alas, mine animals, that alone I have learnt 
hitherto, that the wickedest in man is necessary for 
the best in him 

That all that is wicked, is his best power and the 
hardest stone unto the highest creator ; and that man 
must become better and more wicked. 

Not unto that stake of torture was I fixed, that I 
know : man is wicked. But I cried, as no one hath 
ever cried : 

' Alas, that his wickedest is so very small ! Alas, 
that his best is so very small ! ' 

The great loathing of man, it choked me, it had 
crept into my throat ; and what the fortuneteller 
foretold : ' All is equal, nothing is worth while, know- 
ledge choketh.' 

A long dawn limped in front of me, a sadness weary 
unto death, drunken from death, and speaking with a 
yawning mouth. 

Eternally he recurreth, man, of whom thou weariest, 
the small man. Thus yawned my sadness and dragged 
its foot and could not fall asleep. 


A cave became the human earth for me, its chest 
fell in, all that liveth became unto me mould of men 
and bones and a rotten past. 

My sighing sat on all human graves and could no 
longer get up ; my sighing and questioning cried like 
a toad and choked and gnawed and complained by 
day and night : 

'Alas, man recurreth eternally! The small man 
recurreth eternally ! ' 

Once I had seen both naked, the greatest man and 
the smallest man all-too-like unto each other all- 
to6-human even the greatest man ! 

All-too-small the greatest one ! That was my 
satiety of man ! And eternal recurrence even of 
the smallest one ! That was my satiety of all 

Alas ! loathing ! loathing ! loathing ! " thus spake 
Zarathustra and sighed and shuddered ; for he re- 
membered his illness. But his animals would not 
allow him to speak further. 

" Speak not further, thou convalescent one ! " thus 
his animals answered. "But go out where the world 
waiteth for thee like a garden. 

Go out unto the roses and bees and flocks of doves ! 
But especially unto the singing birds, that thou may- 
est learn singing from them ! 

For singing is good for the convalescent ; the 
healthy one may speak. And when the healthy one 


wanteth songs also, he wanteth other songs than the 
convalescent one." 

" O ye buffoons and barrel-organs, be silent ! " Zara- 
thustra answered and smiled at his animals. "How 
will ye know what comfort I invented for myself in 
seven days ! 

That I was compelled to sing again that comfort 
I invented for myself and that convalescence. Are 
ye going to make at once a barrel-organ song even 
out of that?" 

" Speak no further," his animals answered once more. 
" Rather, thou convalescent one, make first a lyre, a 
new lyre ! 

For, behold, O Zarathustra! For thy new songs 
new lyres are requisite. 

Sing and foam over, O Zarathustra, heal thy soul 
with new songs, that thou mayest carry thy great 
fate that hath not yet been any man's fate ! 

For thine animals know well, O Zarathustra, who 
thou art and must become. Behold, thou art the 
teacher of eternal recurrence. That is now thy fate ! 

That thou hast to be the first to teach this doc- 
trine how should this great fate not also be thy 
greatest danger and illness ? 

Behold, we know what thou teachest ; that all 
things recur eternally, ourselves included ; and that 
we have been there infinite times before, and all 
things with us. 


Thou teachest that there is a great year of becoming, 
a monstrous, great year. It must, like an hourglass, 
ever turn upside down again in order to run down 
and run out 

So that all these years are like unto each other, 
in the greatest and in the smallest things ; so that in 
every great year we are like unto ourselves, in the 
greatest and in the smallest things. 

And if thou wouldst now die, O Zarathustra be- 
hold, we even know what thou wouldst then say unto 
thyself. But thine animals pray thee not to die yet ! 
'Thou wouldst speak, and without trembling, on the 
contrary breathing deeply with happiness. For a great 
burden and sultriness would be taken from thee, thou 
most patient one ! 

'Now I die and vanish,' thou wouldst say, 'and 
in a moment I shall be nothing. Souls are as mortal 
as bodies. * 

But the knot of causes recurreth in which I am 
twined. It will create me again ! I myself belong 
unto the causes of eternal recurrence. 

I come back, with this sun, with this earth, with 
this eagle, with this serpent not for a new life, or a 
better life, or an eternal life. 

I come eternally back unto this one and the same 
life, in the greatest things and in the smallest things, 
in order to teach once more the eternal recurrence of 
all things ; 



In order to speak again the word of the great noon 
of earth and man ; in order to proclaim again beyond- 
man unto man. 

I have spoken my word ; I break from my word. 
Thus willeth mine eternal fate. As a proclaimer I 
perish ! 

The hour hath come now, when the perishing one 
blesseth himself. Thus endeth Zarathustra's de- 
struction.' ' 

The animals having said these words, were silent 
and waited to see whether Zarathustra would say 
anything unto them. But Zarathustra did not hear 
that they were silent. On the contrary: he lay still, 
with his eyes closed, like one asleep, although he did 
not sleep. For he was communing with his soul. But 
the serpent and the eagle finding him thus silent 
respected the great stillness round him and cautiously 


"O my soul, I taught thee to say 'to-day,' as well 
as 'once' and 'long ago,' and to dance thy jig over all 
Here and There and Elsewhere. 

O my soul, I redeemed thee from all corners ! I 
brushed down from thee dust, spiders, and twilight. 
* O my soul, I washed the small shame and corner 
virtue down from thee, and persuaded thee to stand 
naked before the eyes of the sun ! 

With the storm which is called 'spirit,' I blew over 
thine undulating sea. All clouds I blew away and 
throttled even the throttler called 'sin.' 

O my soul, I gave thee the right to say Nay like 
the storm, and to say Yea as the open sky doth ! Still 
like light, now thou standest and walkest through 
denying storms. 

O my soul, I gave thee back freedom over created 
and not created things ! And who knoweth, as thou 
dost, the lust of what is to come? 

O my soul, I taught thee the despising that cometh 
not like the gnawing of worms, the great, loving de- 
spising that loveth most where it despiseth most. 

O my soul, I taught thee thus to persuade, so that 



thou even persuadedst the reasons unto thy side like 
the sun which even persuadeth the sea to ascend unto 
his height! 

O my soul, I took from thee all obeying, bending 
of knees, and saying lord ! I myself gave thee the 
names 'change of needs' and 'fate.' 

O my soul, I gave thee new names and many- 
coloured toys ! I called thee ' fate ' and ' orbit of orbits ' 
and 'navel-cord of time' and 'azure bell.' 

O my soul, unto thy soil gave I all wisdom to drink, 
all new wines, and also all beyond-memory old, strong 
wines of wisdom ! 

O my soul, every sun I poured out over thee, and 
every night, and every silence, and every longing ! 
Then thou grewest up unto me like a vine plant. 

O my soul, over-rich and heavy thou standest there, a 
vine plant with swelling udders and close brown grapes 

Close and pressed from thy happiness, waiting 
because of abundance, and bashful even because of 
thy waiting. 

O my soul, there is certainly now here a soul more 
full of love, readier to embrace and more comprehen- 
sive ! Where could the future and what is past be 
closer together than with thee ? 

O my soul, I gave thee all, and all my hands have 
become empty through giving unto thee ! And now ! 
now thou sayest unto me, smiling and full of melan- 
choly : ' Which of us hath to thank the other ? 


Hath the giver not to thank the taker for taking ? 
Is giving not a necessity ? Is taking not pity ? ' 

O my soul, I understand the smile of thy melan- 
choly. Thine over-great riches themselves now stretch 
out longing hands ! 

Thy fulness gazeth over roaring seas and seeketh 
and waiteth. The longing of over-abundance gazeth 
from the smiling heaven of thine eyes ! 

And, verily, O my soul ! who could see thy smile 
and not melt into tears ? Angels themselves melt into 
tears because of the over-kindness of thy smile. 

Thy kindness and over-kindness wanteth not to 
complain and cry ! And yet, O my soul, thy smile 
longeth for tears, and thy trembling mouth longeth 
to sob. 

' Is not all crying a complaining ? And all com- 
plaining an accusing ? ' Thus thou speakest unto thy- 
self, and therefore, O my soul, thou likest better to 
smile than to pour out thy sorrow 

To pour out in gushing tears all thy sorrow over 
thine abundance, and over all the longing of the vine 
plant for vine-dressers and vine-knives ! 

But if thou wilt not cry, nor give forth in tears 
thy purple melancholy, thou wilt have to sing, O my 
soul ! Behold, I myself smile who foretell such things 
unto thee. 

Thou wilt have to sing with a roaring song, until all 
seas are stilled in order to hearken unto thy longing 


Until over still, longing seas the boat glideth, the 
golden wonder, round the gold of which all good, bad, 
strange things hop 

Also many large and small animals, and whatever 
hath light, strange feet, so that it can run on paths 
of violet blue. 

Until it reacheth the golden wonder, the voluntary 
boat and its master. But he is the vine-dresser who 
waiteth with diamond vine-knife 

Thy greater liberator, O my soul, the nameless one 
for whom future songs only will find names ! And, 
verily, already thy breath smelleth of future songs. 

Already thou glowest and dreamest ; already thou 
drinkest thirstily from all deep, sounding wells of 
comfort ; already thy melancholy resteth in the bliss 
of future songs ! 

O my soul, now I have given thee all, and even 
my last, and all my hands have been emptied by 
giving unto thee ! My bidding thee sing, lo, that was 
the last thing I had ! 

My bidding thee sing say, say: which of us hath 
now to thank the other ? But still better : sing unto 
me, sing, O my soul ! And let me thank ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


"Into thine eye I gazed of late, O life! Gold I saw 
shine in thy night-like eye. My heart stood still 
because of that lust. 

t A golden boat saw I shine on night-like waters, 
a golden, swinging boat, sinking, drinking, shining 

At my foot which is frantic to dance thou castest thy 
glance, a swinging glance, laughing, asking, melting. 

Twice only thou movedst thy rattle with small hands. 
There my foot already swung frantic to dance. 

To understand thee, my toes did hearken, my heels 
did rear. For the dancer weareth in his toes his ear ! 

Unto thy side I jumped. Then thou fleddest back 
from my bound. And towards me played the tongue 
of thy hair fleeing, flying round ! 

Away from thee and from thy serpents, I made 
my dances. Then thou stoodest there, half turned 
round, the eye full of longing glances. 

With crooked blinking, thou teachest me crooked 
courses. On crooked courses my foot learneth artful 



I love thee when thou art far ; I fear thee when 
thou art nigh. Thy flight decoyeth me; thy seeking 
annoyeth me. I suffer; but for thee what suffer 
gaily would not I ! 

Her coldness inflameth ; her hatred seduceth ; her 
flight tameth ; sympathy her mocking produceth. 

Who would not hate thee, thou great binder, twiner, 
tempter, seeker, finder ! Who would not love thy 
ways, thou innocent, impatient, storm-like hurrying 
sinner with a child's gaze ! 

Where dost thou now draw me, thou unruly para- 
gon ? And now thou fleest from me again, thou sweet 
tomboy and thankless one ! 

I dance after thee. Even on slight traces I follow 
thee. Where art thou ? Give me thy hand ! Or even 
a single finger give me ! 

Here are caves and thickets. We shall go astray ! 
Halt ! Stand still ! Seest thou not owls and bats flutter 
their way ? 

Thou bat ! Thou art going to fool me ? Thou owl ! 
Where are we ? From dogs thou learnedst thus to 
bark and howl ! 

With little white teeth thou grinnest at me in thy 
sweet wise. From thy little curly mane spring forth 
against me thine evil eyes ! 

This is a dance over stone and log ! I am the 
huntsman. Wilt thou be my chamois or my dog ? 

Now beside me ! Thou wicked springer, and quick ! 


Now up ! Now over it ! Alas ! In springing I fell 
myself over the stick ! 

Oh, look at me lying here, thou tomboy, how for 
grace I pray ! Fain would I go with thee on a much 
sweeter way ! 

The way of love through bushes many-coloured, 
still, and dim ! Or there along the lake, where the 
goldfish dance and swim ! 

Thou art weary now? Yonder there are evening 
reds and sheep ! When the shepherds play the flute, 
js it not goodly then to sleep ? 

Thou art sore wearied ? I carry thee there. Let 
thine arms now sink ! And if thou art thirsty, I 
have something. But thy mouth liketh it not to drink ! 

Oh, this cursed swift pliant snake and witch hiding 
at every turn ! Whither art thou gone ? But in my 
face I feel from thy hand red spots and double 
blotches burn ! 

I am weary indeed of being ever a stupid shepherd 
for thee ? Thou witch, if I have hitherto sung unto 
thee, thou shalt now cry unto me ! 

Unto the rhythm of my whip shalt thou now dance 
and cry ! Did I remember my whip ? Ay ! ' 

Then life answered me thus, keeping both her neat 
ears shut : 


' O Zarathustra ! Do not crack thy whip so terribly ! 
For thou knowest : noise murdereth thought. And 
even now very tender thoughts come unto me. 

We are the proper pair of good-for-evil things 
and good-for-good things. Beyond good and evil we 
found our island and our green meadow we two 
alone ! Therefore we have to be fond of each other ! 

And although we do not love each other from 
the bottom must folk quarrel, if they love not each 
other from the bottom? 

And that I am fond of thee, and often too fond, 
that thou knowest. And the reason is that I am 
jealous of thy wisdom. Alas, this mad, old fool, 
wisdom ! 

If one day thy wisdom should run away from 
thee, alas ! my love also would then quickly run away 
from thee.' 

Then life looked thoughtfully behind herself and 
round herself, and said gently : ' O Zarathustra, thou 
art not faithful enough unto me ! 

Thou lovest me not so much by far as thou sayest. 
I know, thou thinkest of leaving me soon. 

There is an old heavy humming bell ; it hummeth 
in the night upwards unto thy cave. 

If thou hearest that clock at midnight strike the 
hour, thou thinkest of it between one and twelve. 

Thou thinkest, O Zarathustra, I know it, of soon 
leaving me ! ' 


'Yea,' I answered hesitating, 'but thou also know- 
est ' And I told her something into her ear, in 
the midst of all the confused, yellow, stupid tresses 
of her hair. 

' Thou knowest that, O Zarathustra ? That no one 

And we gazed at each other, and looked at the 
green meadow over which the cool even was spread- 
ing, and wept together. Then life was dearer unto 
me than all my wisdom had ever been unto me." 
v Thus spake Zarathustra. 



man ! Lose not sight ! 

What saith the deep midnight ? 

Three ! 

1 lay in sleep, in sleep ; 

From deep dream I woke to light. 

The world is deep, 

And deeper than ever day thought it might. 


Seven ! 
Deep is its woe, 

Eight ! 
And deeper still than woe delight 

Saith woe : " Pass, go ! 

Eternity is sought by all delight, 

Eleven ! 
Eternity deep by all delight!" 

Twelve ! 



" If I am a fortuneteller and full of that foretelling 
spirit that wandereth on a high mountain ridge between 
two seas, 

3That wandereth between what is past and what is 
to come, as a heavy cloud, an enemy unto sultry 
low lands and all that is weary and can neither die 
nor live 

Ready for the lightning in the dark bosom, and for 
the redeeming beam of light, charged with lightnings, 
that say Yea ! that laugh Yea ! ready for foretelling 

(But blessed is he who is thus charged ! And, 
verily, a long time must he hang as a heavy thunder- 
storm on the mountain, he who shall one day kindle 
the light of the future !) 

Oh ! how could I fail to be eager for eternity, and 
for the marriage ring of rings, the ring of recurrence ? 

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I 
should have liked to have children, unless it be this 
woman I love. For I love thee, O Eternity ! 

For I love thee, O Eternity ! 



If my wrath hath ever broken graves, removed land- 
marks, and rolled down into steep depths old tables 
broken ; 

If my scorn hath ever blown into pieces mouldered 
words, and I have ever come as a brush unto cross- 
spiders, and as a roaring wind unto old dampish grave- 
chambers ; 

If I have ever sat rejoicing where old Gods lie 
buried ; if I have ever sat blessing the world, loving 
the world, beside the monuments of old calumniators 
of the world ; 

(For even churches and graves of Gods I love, when 
once the sky gazeth with its pure eye through their 
broken ceilings. I love to sit on broken churches, 
like the grass and the red poppy.) 

Oh ! how could I fail to be eager for eternity, and 
for the marriage ring of rings, the ring of recurrence ? 

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I 
should have liked to have children, unless it be this 
woman I love. For I love thee, O Eternity! 

For I love thee, O Eternity ! 


If there hath ever come unto me a breath of creative 
breath, and of that heavenly necessity that compelleth 
chance itself to dance star dances ; 


If I have ever laughed with the laughter of creative 
lightning, that is followed by the long thunder of the 
deed, rumbling though willingly ; 

If I have ever played at dice with Gods at the god- 
like table of earth, so that the earth trembled and 
brake and hissed up streams of fire; 

(For a god-like table is earth, and trembling from 
creative new words and dice-casts of Gods.) 

Oh ! how could I fail to be eager for eternity, and 
for the marriage ring of rings, the ring of recurrence ? 

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I 
should have liked to have children, unless it be this 
woman I love. For I love thee, O Eternity ! 

For I love thee, O Eternity ! 

If I have ever drunk a full draught from that foam- 
ing spice-mixture-vessel in which all things are mixed ; 

If my hand hath ever poured what is remotest into 
what is nighest, and fire into spirit, and lust into 
woe, and wickedest into kindest ; 

If I myself am a grain of that redeeming salt that 
maketh all things mix well in the vessel of mixture; 

(For there is a salt that bringeth together what is 
good and what is evil ; and even the wickedest is 
worthy of serving as seasoning, and as a means for 
the last foaming over.) 


Oh ! how could I fail to be eager for eternity, 
and for the marriage ring of rings, the ring of recur- 
rence ? 

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I 
should have liked to have children, unless it be this 
woman I love. For I love thee, O Eternity! 

For I love thee, O Eternity ! 


If I am fond of the sea, and of all that is of the 
sea's kin ; and if I am fondest if it contradicteth me 
angrily ; 

If that seeking lust is within me, that driveth the 
sails after the undiscovered ; if there is a sailor's lust 
in my lust; 

If my rejoicing hath ever cried: 'The shore hath 
disappeared ! Now the last chain hath fallen down 
from me! 

The limitless roareth round me ! Far, far away 
shine unto me space and time ! Up ! upwards ! old 
heart ! ' 

Oh ! how could I fail to be eager for eternity, and 
for the marriage ring of rings, the ring of recurrence ? 

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I 
should have liked to have children, unless it be this 
woman I love. For I love thee, O Eternity ! 

For I love thee, O Eternity ! 


If my virtue is a dancer's virtue, and I have often 
leaped with both feet into golden-emerald rapture ; 

If my wickedness is a laughing wickedness, feeling 
at home under rose slopes and lily-hedges ; 

(For in laughter there is gathered all that is 
wicked, but proclaimed holy and free through its own 

And if it be mine Alpha and mine Omega that all 
that is heavy should become light, all that is body 
become a dancer, all that is spirit become a bird. And, 
verily, that is mine A and mine O ! 

Oh ! how could I fail to be eager for eternity, and 
for the marriage ring of rings, the ring of recurrence ? 

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I 
should have liked to have children, unless it be this 
woman I love. For I love thee, O Eternity ! 

For I love thee, O Eternity ! 

If I have ever spread out above me still skies, and 
have ever flown into mine own skies by mine own 
wings ; 

If I have hovered playfully in deep light-distances 
and there hath come the bird-wisdom of my freedom ; 

(Thus speaketh bird-wisdom : ' Behold, here is 


no above, no below ! Throw thyself to and fro, out, 
back, thou light one ! Sing ! Speak no more ! 

Are not all words made for the heavy ? Lie not 
all words unto the light one ! Sing ! Speak no 
more ! ' 

Oh ! how could I fail to be eager for eternity, and 
for the marriage ring of rings, the ring of recurrence ? 

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I 
should have liked to have children, unless it be this 
woman I love. For I love thee, O Eternity ! 

For I love thee, O Eternity!" 


"Alas! where in the world have greater follies 
happened than with the pitiful ? And what in the world 
hath done more harm than the follies of the pitifttl ? 

Woe unto all loving ones who do not possess an eleva- 
tion which is above their pity ! 

Thus the devil once said unto me : ' Even God hath his 
own hell: that is his love unto men.'' 

And recently I heard the word said: l God is dead; he 
hath died of his pity for men." 1 " 

Zarathustra, II 
Of The Pitiful 


And again months and years passed over Zara- 
thustra's soul, and he took no notice of it. But his 
hair grew white. One day, when he sat on a stone 
before his cave and silently gazed (there one looketh 
out on the sea and away over winding abysses) his 
animals went thoughtfully round him and at last stood 
in front of him. 

" O Zarathustra," they said, " dost thou peradventure 
look out for thy happiness ? " " What is happiness 
worth ? " he answered. " For a long time I have not 
ceased to strive for my happiness ; now I strive for my 
work." "O Zarathustra," the animals said once more, 
"thou sayest so as one who hath more than enough 
of what is good. Dost thou not lie in a sky-blue lake 
of happiness ? " "Ye buffoons," answered Zarathustra 
smiling, " how well ye chose that simile ! But ye also 
know that my happiness is heavy, and is not like a 
liquid wave of water. It presseth me and will not 
part from me and behaveth like melted pitch." 

Then the animals again went thoughtfully round 
him and once more stood in front of him. " O Zara- 
thustra," they said, "we see, it is for that reason that 


thou growest ever yellower and darker, though thy 
hair will soon look white and flaxy? Behold, thou 
sittest in thy pitch ! " " What say ye now, mine ani- 
mals?" said Zarathustra laughing. "Verily, I reviled 
when speaking of pitch. What I experience is experi- 
enced by all fruits which grow ripe. The honey in my 
veins thickeneth my blood and stilleth my soul also." 
" Thus it will be, O Zarathustra ! " answered the ani- 
mals and thronged round him. "But art thou not 
going up a high mountain to-day ? The air is pure, 
and this day one seeth more of the world than ever 
before." "Yea, mine animals," he answered, "ye 
guess well and according to my wishes. This day I 
am going up a high mountain. But take care that 
there be honey at my disposal, yellow, white, good, 
golden comb-honey as cool as ice. For learn, at the 
top I am going to make the honey-offering." 

But when Zarathustra had reached the summit, 
he sent home his animals which had led him, and 
found that now he was alone. Then he laughed 
from the bottom of his heart, looked round and 
spake thus : 

" That I spake of offering and of honey-offerings, 
was merely my stratagem of speech, and, verily, a 
useful stupidity ! On this summit one is allowed to 
speak a little freer than before hermit-caves and an 
hermit's domestic animals. 

Why sacrifice ! I waste what I am given. A waster 


with a thousand hands am I. How could I dare to 
call that offering ! 

And when I asked for honey, I merely wanted to have a 
bait and sweet slime and phlegm, for which even growling 
bears and strange, morose, evil birds smack their lips 

To have the best bait that is requisite for hunts- 
men and fishers. For if the world is like a dark 
forest of animals, and a pleasure-ground of all wild 
huntsmen, it seemeth unto me to be still more, and 
preferably, a bottomless, rich sea 

A sea full of many-coloured fish and crabs, by which 
even Gods might be tempted to become fishers there 
and throw out their nets. So rich is the world in 
strange things, great and small ! 

In particular the world of men, the sea of men ! 
For that I now throw out my golden fishing rod, say- 
ing : ' Open, O thou abyss of men ! 

Open and throw into my hands thy fish and glitter- 
ing crabs ! With my best bait this day I bait the 
strangest human fish ! 

My happiness itself I throw out into all distances 
and remote places, between east, south, and west, to 
try whether on the hook of my happiness many human 
fish will learn to pull and wriggle. 

Until they, biting on my pointed hidden hooks, are 
forced to come up unto my height, the most many- 
coloured abyss-groundlings, unto the most malicious 
one of all catchers of human fish.' 


For this I am from the bottom and from the be- 
ginning, pulling, pulling unto me, pulling up unto me, 
bringing up a puller, breeder, and governor, who not 
in vain once counselled himself: 'Become what thou 

Thus men may now come up unto me. For I am 
still waiting for the signs indicating that it is time 
for my going down. Not yet do I perish among men, 
as I must do. 

For that I wait here, artful and mocking on high 
mountains, not impatient, not patient ; on the con- 
trary, one who hath among other things unlearnt 
patience, because he suffereth no more. 

For my fate alloweth me plenty of time. Did it 
forget me? Or doth it sit behind a large stone in 
the shadow catching flies ? 

And, verily, I am well disposed towards it, towards 
mine eternal fate, for that reason that it doth not 
hunt and press me, but leaveth me time for fibs and 
tricks ; so that this day I have gone up this high 
mountain to catch fish. 

Hath ever a man caught fish on high mountains ? 
And though what I seek and do up here be a folly, 
it is better to do this than by waiting down there to 
become solemn and green and yellow 

To become by waiting a sprawling one who panteth 
for wrath, a holy howling storm from the mountains, 
an impatient one who shouteth down into the valleys : 


'Listen, otherwise I shall whip you with the scourge 
of God!' 

Not that I waxed angry with such wrathful ones. 
As an occasion of laughter, they are good enough 
unto me ! Impatient they must be, the big noise- 
drums, who find language to-day or never ! 

But I and my fate, we speak not unto To-day. 
Nor do we speak unto Never. For speaking we 
have patience and time and too-much-time. For one 
day it must come and will not be allowed to pass 


Who must come one day and will not be allowed 
to pass by? Our great Hazar, i.e., our great far-off 
kingdom of man, the Zarathustra-kingdom of a thou- 
sand years. 

How far may that 'far' be? What doth it concern 
me ? But on that account it is no less sure unto me. 
With both feet I stand safely on that ground 

On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on 
these highest, hardest primitive mountains, unto which, 
as unto a point of separation for thunder-clouds, the 
winds come asking : Where ? and Whence ? and 

Here laugh, laugh, O my bright, unscathed wicked- 
ness ! Down from high mountains throw thy glitter- 
ing mocking laughter ! Bait for me with thy glitter- 
ing the finest human fish ! 

And whatever belongeth unto me in all seas, my 


in-and-for-me in all things fish tJtat out for me, 
bring that up unto me! For it I wait, the most 
malicious of all fish-catchers. 

Out, out, my hook ! In, down, bait of my happi- 
ness ! Drop thy sweetest dew, honey of my heart ! 
Bite, my hook, into the womb of all black affliction! 

Out, out, mine eye! Oh, how many seas round 
about me, what dawning futures of men ! And above 
me what rose-red stillness ! What cloudless silence ! " 


The following day Zarathustra sat again on his 
stone before the cave, while the animals strayed out- 
side in the world in order to bring home fresh food, 
including fresh honey. For the old honey had been 
Spent and wasted unto the last drop by Zarathustra. 
But when he thus sat there with a stick in his hand, 
and copied the shadow of his figure on the ground, 
meditating (and, verily, not upon himself and his 
shadow), suddenly he was terrified and gave a start. 
For beside his shadow he saw another shadow. And 
when he looked round quickly and arose, behold, there 
the fortune-teller stood beside him, the same unto 
whom he once had given food and drink at his table, 
the announcer of the great weariness, who taught : 
" Everything is equal ; nothing is worth while ; the 
world is without sense ; knowledge choketh." But in 
the meantime his face had changed. And when Zara- 
thustra looked into his eyes, his heart was terrified 
once more. So many evil prophecies and ashen-gray 
lightnings passed over that face. 

The fortune-teller, who had noticed what was going 
on in Zarathustra's soul, wiped his face with his hand, 



as if he were going to wipe it out. The same did 
Zarathustra. And when both of them had in silence 
recovered and reassured themselves, they shook hands 
to show that they wished to recognise each other. 

"Welcome unto me," said Zarathustra, " thou 
prophet of the great weariness ! Not in vain shalt 
thou have once been the friend of my table and 
house. Eat and drink in the same way this day with 
me and forgive a happy old man for sitting down to 
dinner with thee ! " "A happy old man ? " answered 
the fortune-teller, shaking his head. "Whatever thou 
art or desirest to be, O Zarathustra, that thou hast 
been up here the largest part of thy sojourn. Thy 
boat shall in a little while sit no longer on dry 
ground ! " " Do I sit on the dry ground ? " asked 
Zarathustra laughing. " The waves round thy hill," 
answered the fortune-teller, " rise and rise, the waves 
of great need and affliction. They will soon raise thy 
boat like others and carry thee off." After that 
Zarathustra was silent and wondered. "Dost thou 
not hear anything yet ? " the fortune-teller continued. 
" Is there not a rustling and roaring up from the 
depth ? " Zarathustra was silent again and hearkened. 
Then he heard a long, long cry, which the abysses 
threw and passed on from the one unto the other. 
For none had any desire to keep it ; so horrid it 

"Thou evil announcer," at last Zarathustra said, 


"that is a cry for help, and the cry of a man. It may 
well spring from a black sea. But what doth human 
danger concern me ! My last sin, the sin that was 
kept for me, peradventure thou knowest what is its 
name ? " 

"Pity!" answered the fortune-teller with over- 
flowing heart and lifted both his hands. "O Zara- 
thustra, I have come to seduce thee unto thy last 
sin ! " 

And scarce had these words been uttered when 
the cry sounded again, and longer and more anxious 
than before, and also much nigher. " Hearest thou ? 
Hearest thou, O Zarathustra ? " the fortune-teller 
cried. " The cry is meant to be heard by thee ; thee 
it calleth. Come, come, come ! It is time, it is high 
time !" 

Then Zarathustra was silent and confused and 
agitated. At last he asked like one hesitating : " And 
who is it who there calleth me ? " 

"Thou knowest well," answered the fortune-teller 
hotly. "Why dost thou hide thyself? The higher 
man it is who calleth for thee ! " 

" The higher man ? " shouted Zarathustra, horror- 
stricken. "What wanteth he? What wanteth he? 
The higher man! What wanteth he here?" And 
sweat brake out over his skin. 

But the fortune-teller answered not the anxious 
cries uttered by Zarathustra, but hearkened and 


hearkened towards the depth. But when all was still 
there for a long while, he turned his look back and 
saw Zarathustra stand trembling. 

"O Zarathustra," he began with a sad voice, "thou 
dost not stand there like one made giddy by his happi- 
ness. Thou wilt have to dance in order not to fall down ! 

But even if thou wert to dance in my presence 
and leap all thy side-leaps, nobody shall be allowed 
to say : ' Behold, here danceth the last gay man ! ' 

In vain would he come unto this height who would 
seek such a one here. True, he would find caves and 
back caves, hiding-places for hidden ones, but not 
mines of happiness and treasure-chambers and new 
golden veins of happiness. 

Happiness how could one find happiness with 
such interred ones and hermits ? Must I yet seek the 
last happiness on blissful islands, and far away among 
forgotten seas ? 

But everything is equal ; nothing is worth while ; 
no seeking is any good ; there are no longer any 
blissful islands besides ! " 

Thus sighed the fortune-teller; but with his last 
sigh Zarathustra became once more bright and as- 
sured, like one who cometh unto the light out of a 
deep gulf. " Nay ! Nay ! Three times Nay ! " he 
cried with a strong voice and stroked his beard. "I 
know better ! There are still blissful islands ! Speak 
not of such things, thou sighing sack of sadness ! 


Cease to splash about that, thou rain -cloud in the 
forenoon ! Stand I not already here, wet with thine 
affliction, and moistened like a dog ? 

Now I shake myself and run away from thee, in 
order to become dry again. At that thou must not 
be astonished ! Do I seem to be discourteous unto 
thee ? But here is my court. 

And concerning thy higher man up! I shall seek 
him quickly in those forests. From them came his 
cry. Perhaps an evil beast harasseth him. 

He is in my sphere. There he shall not meet with 
any accident ! And, verily, there are many evil ani- 
mals with me." 

With these words Zarathustra turned himself unto 
his journey. Then the fortune-teller said : " O Zara- 
thustra, thou art a rogue ! 

I know it well : thou wouldst fain be rid of me ! 
Rather than tarry with me, thou runnest into the 
forests and liest in wait for evil animals ! 

But of what good is it for thee ? In the evening 
thou wilt have me back ; in thine own cave shall I 
sit, patient and heavy like a block, and wait for thee ! " 

"Thus shall it be!" Zarathustra cried back in 
departing, " and what is my property in my cave, is 
thy property also, my friend and guest ! 

But if thou shouldst find there any honey, up! lick 
it up, thou growling bear, and sweeten thy soul ! For 
in the evening we two will be gay together- 


Gay and happy, because this day hath come unto 
an end ! And thou thyself shalt dance unto my songs, 
as my dancing bear. 

Thou dost not believe it? Thou shakest thy head? 
Up ! Up ! Old bear, I also am a fortune-teller." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


Zarathustra had not yet been an hour on his way 
through his mountains and forests, when all at once 
he saw a strange procession. Even on the way by 
which he was going down, there came two kings, 
adorned with crowns and purple belts, and many- 
coloured, like flamingo-birds. The kings drove in front 
of them an ass with a burden. "What do these 
kings want in my kingdom ? " Zarathustra in aston- 
ishment said unto his heart, and hid quickly behind 
a bush. But when the kings came close unto him, 
he said with a half voice, like one who speaketh only 
unto himself : " Strange ! Strange ! How accordeth 
this ? Two kings I see, and one ass only ! " 

Then the two kings stopped, smiled, gazed in the 
direction of the spot whence the voice came, and then 
looked into each other's faces. "Such things are 
thought among us also, it is true," said the king on 
the right side, "but one doth not say them." 

But the king on the left side shrugging his shoulders 
said : " He will probably be a goat-herd. Or a hermit 
2 A 353 


who hath lived too long among rocks and trees. For 
no society at all spoileth good manners also." 

" Good manners ? " the other king replied angrily 
and bitterly. " Out of whose way have we gone ? Is 
it not 'good manners,' our 'good society'? 

Verily, rather would I dwell among hermits and 
goat-herds than with our mob gilded over, false, with 
painted cheeks, although it call itself ' good society ' 

Although it call itself 'nobility.' But there all is 
false and rotten, above all the blood, owing unto old 
evil diseases and still worse physicians. 

He who is best for me and dearest unto me to-day, 
is a healthy peasant, coarse, artful, hard-necked, endur- 
ing. That is to-day the noblest tribe. 

To-day the peasant is the best. And the peasant's 
tribe should dominate ! But it is the kingdom of the 
mob; I no longer allow any imposition. But mob 
that meaneth mishmash. 

Mob-like mishmash therein is all mixed up with 
all, saint and rogue and gentleman and Jew and 
every animal from Noah's ark. 

Good manners ! With us, all is false and rotten. 
Nobody knoweth any longer how to revere. It is from 
this exactly that we seek to escape. They are over- 
sweet, forward dogs, they gild palm-leaves. 

I choke with loathing that even we kings have 
become false, dressed up and disguised with the old 
withered pomp of our grandfathers, medals for the. 


most stupid and the most cunning, and whoever to-day 
chaffereth with power ! 

We are not the first ; and yet have to represent 
them. Of this cheatery at last we have grown weary 
and disgusted. 

We have gone out of the way of the rabble, those 
brawlers and blue-bottles of writing, the stench of shop- 
keepers, the wriggling of ambition, the evil breath. 
Ugh ! to live among the rabble ! 

Ugh ! to represent the first among the rabble ! 
Oh ! loathing ! loathing ! loathing ! What do we 
kings matter any longer ? " 

"Thine old disease attacketh thee," said here the 
king on the left. " Loathing attacketh thee, my poor 
brother. But thou knowest well, somebody hearkeneth 
unto us." 

Zarathustra, whose ears and eyes had opened with 
surprise at these speeches, rose from his hiding-place, 
stepped towards the kings and began thus : 

" He who hearkeneth unto you, he who willingly 
hearkeneth unto you, ye kings, is called Zarathustra. 

I am Zarathustra who once said : ' What do kings 
any longer matter ? ' Forgive me, I was happy when 
ye said unto each other : ' What do we kings matter ? ' 

But here is my kingdom and my dominion. I 
wonder what ye seek in my kingdom ? Perhaps ye 
have found on the way what / seek, namely the 
higher man." 


When the kings heard this, they beat their breast 
and said as with one mouth : " We have been recog- 
nised ! 

With the sword of this word thou severedst the 
thickest darkness of our hearts. Thou hast discovered 
our need. For, behold ! we are on the way, in order 
to find the higher man 

The man who is higher than we are, although 
we be kings. Unto him we lead this ass. For 
the highest man shall also be the highest lord on 

There is no harder lot in all human fate, than when 
the powerful of the earth are not at the same time 
the first men. There everything becometh false and 
warped and monstrous. 

And when, worst of all, they are the last men, 
and more beast than man there the price of the 
mob riseth and riseth, and at last the virtue of the 
mob saith : ' Behold, I alone am virtue ! ' ' 

"What did I hear just now?" answered Zarathustra. 
" What wisdom with kings ! I am ravished, and, verily, 
this very moment I feel the desire to make a stanza. 

Even if it should become a stanza that is not good 
for everybody's ears. Long ago I have unlearnt to 
pay heed unto long ears. Up ! Up ! " 

(Here it came to pass that the ass also could make 
a remark. And it said distinctly and maliciously 
Hee-haw !) 


" Once in the year of the Lord one, I opine, 
The Sibyl spake thus, she was drunk, without wine : 
' Alas ! Now all goeth wrong on its way ! 
Ne'er so deep sank the world ! Decay ! Decay ! 
Rome grew a whore, a brothel she grew, 
Rome's Caesar a beast, and God a Jew ! ' " 

At these lines of Zarathustra the kings rejoiced. 
But the king on the right said : " O Zarathustra, how 
\$ell it was that we went out to see thee ! 

For thine enemies showed us thy picture in their 
looking-glass. There thou lookedst with a devil's 
grimace and scornful laughter, so that we were afraid 
of thee. 

But of what good was it ! Ever again thou stungest 
us in ear and heart with thy sayings. Then at last 
we said : ' What matter how he may look ! ' 

We must hear him, him who teacheth : ' Ye shall 
love peace as a means for new wars, and a short 
peace better than a long ! ' 

Nobody hath ever said such war-like words : ' What 
is good ? To be brave is good ! It is the good war 
that halloweth every cause/ 

O Zarathustra, hearing such words, our fathers' 
blood moved in our body. That was like the speech 
of spring unto old wine barrels. 


When the swords crossed each other like serpents 
with red spots, our fathers grew fond of life. The sun 
of all peace seemed unto them to be weak and luke- 
warm, and long peace caused them shame. 

How they sighed, our fathers, when seeing at the 
walls, swords glittering but dry as dry ! Like unto 
them they thirsted for war. For a sword desireth to 
drink blood and sparkleth with desire." 

When thus the kings spake eagerly and gossiped of 
their fathers' happiness, Zarathustra was seized by no 
small desire to mock at their eagerness. For appar- 
ently very peaceful kings they were whom he saw 
before him, kings with old and refined faces. But he 
mastered himself. "Up!" he said, "in that direc- 
tion leadeth the way. There lieth the cave of Zara- 
thustra. And this day shall have a long evening! 
But now a cry for help calleth me in haste away from 

It will honour my cave if kings come to sit and 
wait in it. But, it is true, ye will have to wait for 

Heed not ! What matter ! Where doth one to- 
day learn better to wait than at courts ? And the 
whole virtue of kings, the whole virtue that is left 
unto them, is it not called to-day to be able to 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


And deliberately Zarathustra went further and 
deeper through forests and past moory vales. But, 
as cometh to pass with all who meditate on hard 
things, he stepped on a man unawares. And, behold, 
a^l at once a cry of pain and two curses and twenty 
evil abusive words splashed into his face, so that, in 
his terror, he lifted his stick and beat him on whom 
he had trodden. But immediately afterwards he re- 
covered his senses, his heart laughing at the folly 
just done by him. 

" Forgive," said he unto the trodden one, who had 
got up angrily and sat down again. " Forgive, and, 
above all, listen unto a parable. 

As a wanderer who dreameth of distant things on 
a lonely road, striketh unawares against a sleeping 
dog, a dog which is lying in the sun ; 

As both of these, terrified unto death, start and 
snap at each other, like unto mortal enemies, thus it 
came to pass unto us. 

And yet ! And yet ! How little was lacking for 
them to fondle each other, that dog and that lonely 
one ! For both are lonely ! " 



" Whoever thou mayest be," said the trodden one 
still angrily, "thou tramplest upon me, with thy parable 
as well as with thy foot ! 

Behold, am I a dog ? " And thereupon the sitting 
one got up and drew his naked arm out of the 
swamp. For previously he had lain on the ground, 
stretched out, hidden and not recognisable like such 
as lie in wait for swamp deer. 

" But what dost thou ? " cried Zarathustra terrified. 
For he saw that much blood streamed over the naked 
arm. " What hath happened unto thee ? Did an evil 
beast bite thee, thou unhappy one ? " 

The bleeding one laughed, still in anger. "What 
doth that concern thee ? " he said and was about to 
go his way. " Here am I at home, and in mine own 
province. Ask me whoever liketh, but I shall scarcely 
answer a boor." 

"Thou art mistaken," said Zarathustra with pity, 
and held him tight. " Thou art mistaken. Here thou 
art not at home, but in my kingdom, and there 
nobody shall suffer any damage. 

But heed not, call me as thou choosest, I am he 
that I must be. But I call myself Zarathustra. 

Up ! Up there goeth the way unto Zarathustra's 
cave. It is not far. Wilt thou not in my home take 
care of thy wounds ? 

Thou hast been ill off, thou unhappy one, in this life. 
First a beast bit thee, and then a man trod on thee." 


But when the trodden one heard the name of 
Zarathustra, he changed. " Oh ! what happeneth unto 
me ! " he exclaimed. " Who else is of any account 
unto me in this life but this one man, Zarathustra, 
and that one beast which liveth on blood, the leech ? 

For the sake of the leech I lay here at this swamp, 
like a fisherman ; and mine arm thrown out had 
already been bitten ten times. A still more beautiful 
leech biteth me for my blood, Zarathustra himself! 

Oh, happiness ! Oh, wonder ! Praised be this day 
which allured me into this swamp ! Praised be the 
best live cupping-glass alive this day! Praised be 
the great leech of conscience, Zarathustra ! " 

Thus spake the trodden one ; and Zarathustra re- 
joiced at his words and their fine respectful style. 
"Who art thou?" he asked and shook his hand. 
" Between us many things remain to be cleared up 
and brightened. But already, methinketh, it becometh 
pure, broad daylight." 

" I am the conscientious one of the spirit," answered 
he who had been asked, " and in matters of the spirit, 
scarcely any one taketh things more severely, more 
narrowly, and harder than I, except thee from whom 
I learned it, Zarathustra himself. 

Rather know nothing than know many things by 
halves ! Rather be a fool on one's own account than 
a wise man on other folk's approbation ! I examine 
things down unto the ground. 


What matter whether it be great or small? Whether 
it be called swamp or sky? A hand's breadth of 
ground is enough for me ; if it only be actually a 
ground and bottom ! 

A hand's breadth of ground thereon one can stand. 
In the proper conscientiousness of knowledge there 
is nothing great and nothing small." 

"Thus thou art perhaps the perceiver of the 
leech?" asked Zarathustra; "and thou followest 
the leech unto its last ground, thou conscientious 
one ? " 

" O Zarathustra," answered he who had been trodden 
on, " that would be something immense ! How could 
I dare to undertake that ? 

The thing whose master and knower I am that 
is the leech's brain. That is my world ! 

And it is a world as others are ! But forgive my 
pride finding expression here. For here I have not 
my like. Therefore I said : ' Here am I at home.' 

How long have I followed out that one thing, the 
leech's brain, that the slippery truth might no more 
escape me here ! Here is my kingdom ! 

To get at that, I have thrown away everything 
else ; for the sake of it, everything else hath become 
indifferent unto me ; and close unto my knowledge 
dwelleth my dense ignorance. 

The conscience of my spirit demandeth from me 
that I should know one thing and not know every- 


thing else that is. I loathe all the half ones of the 
spirit, all the vaporous, hovering, enthusiastic. 

Where mine* honesty ceaseth, I am blind and will 
be blind. But where I intend to know, I will also be 
honest, i.e., hard, severe, narrow, cruel, inexorable. 

Because thou once saidest, O Zarathustra : ' Spirit 
is the life that cutteth itself into life,' I was led and 
seduced unto thy doctrine. And, verily, with mine 
own blood have I increased mine own knowledge ! " 

"As appearance teacheth," Zarathustra interrupted 
hjm. For the blood was still streaming down from 
the naked arm of the conscientious one. For ten 
leeches had bit themselves into it. 

"O thou strange fellow, how much am I taught 
by this appearance, i.e., by thyself! And perhaps I 
might not dare to pour all that into thy strict ears ! 

Up ! let us part ! But I should like to find thee 
again. Up there leadeth the way unto my cave. This 
night thou shalt be my dear guest there ! 

Fain would I also make amends on thy body, for 
Zarathustra treading on thee with his feet. On that 
I meditate. But now a cry for help calleth me in 
haste away from thee." 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


But when Zarathustra had gone round a rock he 
saw not far below him on the same road as himself 
a man who threw his limbs about like a madman, and 
at last fell down to the ground upon his stomach. 
"Halt!" then said Zarathustra unto his heart. "The 
man there seemeth to be the higher man ; from him 
came that horrid cry for help. I will see whether I 
can be of any help." But when he came unto the 
place where the man lay on the ground, he found a 
trembling old man with his eyes fixed. And although 
Zarathustra took all the pains he could to get him up 
and put him on his legs again, it was in vain. The 
unhappy one seemed not to notice that anybody was 
by his side. On the contrary, he continually looked 
round with moving gestures, like one forsaken and 
left solitary by all the world. But at last, with much 
trembling, twitching, and curling himself up, he began 
thus to lament : 

" Who warmeth me, who loveth me still ? 
Give hot hands ! 
Give heart's coal-pans ! 


Stretched out, shivering, 

Like one half dead whose feet are warmed, 

Shaken, alas ! by unknown fevers, 

Trembling from the icy, pointed arrows of 


Hunted, thought, by thee! 
Unutterable ! Veiled ! Horrid one ! 

Thou huntsman behind the clouds ! 
Struck to the ground by thee, 
Thou mocking eye that gazeth at me from 

the dark ! 
Thus I lie, 

Bend, writhe, tortured 
By all eternal tortures, 


By thee, cruellest of huntsmen, 
Thou unknown God . . . 

Smite harder! 

Smite once more ! 

Sting, break to pieces this heart ! 

What meaneth this torturing 

With its blunt-toothed arrows? 

Why gazest thou again, 

Never weary of human pain, 

With the malicious lightening eyes of a God? 

Thou wilt not kill, 

Only torture, torture ? 


Wherefore torture me, 

Thou malicious, unknown God? 

Ha! Ha! 
Thou creepest nigh 
In such a midnight ? 
What wilt thou? 
Speak ! 

Thou crushest me, thou pressest me, 
Ha ! already much too nigh ! 
Thou hearest me breathe, 
Thou hearkenest unto my heart, 
Thou jealous one! 
Jealous of what ? 
Away, away ! 
The ladder for what? 
Wilt thou step in, 
Step into my heart, 
Step into the loneliest 
Of my thoughts ? 

Shameless one ! Unknown one ! Thief ! 
What wilt thou steal for thyself? 
What wilt thou hearken for thyself ? 
What wilt thou get by torturing, 
Thou torturer ! 
Thou hangman's God ! 
Or shall I roll myself before thee 
Like the dog, 


Wag love unto thee with the tail, 
Giving myself, in eager franzy? 

In vain ! 

Sting on ! 

Cruellest of stings ! 

Not a dog thy game merely am I, 

Cruellest of huntsmen ! 

Thy proudest prisoner, 

Thou robber behind the clouds . . . 

Speak at last ! 

Thou who art veiled in lightnings ! Unknown ! 

Speak ! 
What wilt thou, waylayer, from me ? 

What ? 
A ransom ? 

What wilt thou ransom ? 
Demand much ! Thus my pride counselleth ! 
And be brief ! Thus mine other pride coun- 
selleth ! 

Ha! Ha! 

Myself wilt thou ? myself ? 
Myself ? the whole of me ? 

Ha! Ha! 

And thou torturest me, fool that thou art ! 


Torturest my pride to pieces ? 

Give love unto me ! Who still warmeth me ? 

Who still loveth me? 
Give hot hands, 
Give heart's coal-pans ! 
Give me, the loneliest, 
Who by ice, alas ! by sevenfold ice, 
Am taught to thirst for enemies, 
For enemies themselves, 
Give, yea, give thyself up, 
Cruellest enemy, 
Unto me! 

Away ! 

There he fled himself, 

My sole companion, 

My great enemy, 

Mine unknown one, 

My hangman's God ! . . . 


Come back ! 

With all thy tortures! 

Oh, come back 

Unto the last of all lonely ones ! 

All my tears run 

Their course unto thee! 


And the last flame of my heart 
Up it gloweth unto thee ! 
Oh, come back, 
Mine unknown God, my pain! 
My last happiness ! . . ." 

But then Zarathustra could no longer restrain him- 
self, but took his stick and, with all his might, struck 
the wailing one. " Stop," he cried unto him, with 
wrathful laughter. "Stop, thou actor! Thou false 
coiner ! Thou liar from the bottom ! I know thee 

I shall make thy legs hot, thou evil wizard ! I 
understand well how to make it hot for such as thou 
art ! " 

" Cease," said the old man, and leaped from the 
ground ; " strike no more, O Zarathustra ! I did it 
merely for fun ! 

Such things are part of mine art. Thyself I in- 
tended to try, when I gave thee this sample ! And, 
verily, thou hast well found me out ! 

But even thou hast given me no small sample of 
thyself. Thou art hard, thou wise Zarathustra! Hard 
thou strikest with thy 'truths.' Thy stick forceth this 
truth to come out of me ! " 

" Flatter not," said Zarathustra, still excited and 


looking sullen, " thou actor from the bottom ! Thou 
art false. Why speakest thou of truth ? 

Thou peacock of peacocks, thou sea of vanity, what 
didst thou play before me, thou evil wizard ? In whom 
was it purposed to make me believe, when thou wail- 
edst in such a shape ? " 

" The penitent of spirit" said the old man. "He it 
was whom I played; (thou didst once thyself invent 
this word) 

The poet and wizard who at last turneth his spirit 
against himself, the changed one who freezeth to 
death because of his evil knowledge and his evil 

And now confess it ! It took thee a long time, O 
Zarathustra, to find out mine art and lie ! Thou be- 
lievedst in my need, when thou heldest my head with 
both hands. 

I heard thee wail : ' They have loved him too 
little, they have loved him too little ! ' In deceiving 
thee so far, my wickedness rejoiced within me." 

" Probably thou hast deceived more acute ones than 
I am," said Zarathustra sternly. " I am not on the 
watch for deceivers, I must be without prudence. 
Thus my lot willeth. 

But thou must deceive. So far I know thee. Thou 
must always have two, three, four or five meanings! 
Even what thou hast now confessed, was not nearly 
true enough or false enough for me ! 



Thou evil false coiner, how couldst thou do other- 
wise ! The very cheeks of thy disease thou wouldst 
paint, when thou wouldst show thyself naked unto 
thy physician. 

Thus thou hast now in my presence painted the 
cheeks of thy lie, when thou saidest : 'I did it merely 
for fun ! ' There was also some seriousness in it. 
Thou art somewhat of a penitent of spirit ! 

Indeed I have found thee out. Thou hast become 
the enchanter of all ; but for use against thyself thou 

hast no lie and no artfulness left. Thou art disen- 

chanted in thine own eyes ! 

Thou hast reaped loathing as thine one truth. No 
word in thee is genuine any more. But thy mouth is 
i.e., the loathing is that cleaveth unto thy mouth." 

" Who art thou ! " then cried the old wizard with a 
defiant voice. " Who dareth to speak thus unto me, the 
greatest one, who liveth this day?" And a green 
lightning shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But im- 
mediately thereafter he changed and said sadly : 

" O Zarathustra, I am weary of it, I loathe mine 
arts. I am not great. Why do I dissemble? But 
thou knowest well : I sought for greatness ! 

I desired to seem a great man and persuaded many. 
But that lie went beyond my power. On it I go to 

O Zarathustra, everything in me is a lie. But that 
I go to pieces this my going to pieces \sgenuinet" 


" It doth honour unto thee," said Zarathustra looking 
down sullenly aside. " It doth thee honour that thou 
soughtest for greatness, but it also betrayeth thee. 
Thou art not great. 

Thou bad old wizard, that is the best and most 
honest thing I honour in thee, that thou becamest weary 
of thyself and hast pronounced it : ' I am not great.' 

Therein I honour thee as a penitent of spirit. And 
if thou wert genuine only for a breath and a twinkle, 
for this one moment thou wert so. 

But say, what seekest thou here in my forests and 
rocks ? And if thou hast put thyself in my way, in 
what didst thou desire to try me ? Wherein didst 
thou tempt me?" 

Thus spake Zarathustra, his eyes sparkling. But 
the old wizard was silent for a while. Then he said : 
" Did I tempt thee ? I seek only. 

O Zarathustra, I seek one who is genuine, one right, 
one simple, who hath only one meaning, a man of 
entire honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint of per- 
ception, a great man ! 

Knowest thou not, O Zarathustra ? I seek Zara- 

Then a long silence arose between the two. But 
Zarathustra sank deep into himself so that he shut 
his eyes. Thereafter, returning unto him with whom 
he had spoken, he seized the hand of the wizard and 
spake full of politeness and artfulness : 



"Up! Up there leadeth the way, there lieth the 
cave of Zarathustra. In it thou raayest seek him 
whom thou wouldst find. 

And ask mine animals for their counsel, mine 
eagle and my serpent ! They shall help thee to seek. 
My cave is large. 

Myself, it is true, I have not yet seen a great 
man. What is great, for that to-day the eye of the 
finest is crude. It is the kingdom of the mob. 

Many a one I have found, who strained himself 
and puffed himself up. And the folk cried : ' Behold 
there, a great man ! ' But of what good are any 
bellows ! At last the wind escapeth from them. 

At last the frog bursteth which puffed itself up 
over-long. Then the wind escapeth from it. To stab 
the womb of a swollen one, that I call good pas- 
time. Hearken unto that, ye boys ! 

To-day is of the mob. Who knoweth any longer 
what is great, what is small? Who could have good 
luck seeking for greatness there ? A fool only. Fools 
have good luck. 

Thou seekest for great men, thou strange fool? 
Who taught thee that ? Is to-day the time for it ? 
Oh, thou evil seeker, why dost thou tempt me?" 

Thus spake Zarathustra, comforted in his heart, 
and went his way onwards, laughing. 


But not long after Zarathustra had rid himself of 
the wizard, he again saw some one sitting by the 
way he went, namely a black tall man with a lean, 
pale face. He annoyed him sorely. " Alas ! " said he 
unto his heart, " there sitteth affliction disguised. That 
seemeth unto me to be of the tribe of priests. What 
want tJiey in my kingdom ? 

What ! Scarce have I escaped from that wizard, 
until another necromancer is fated to cross my path, 
some sorcerer with laying on of hands ; an obscure 
wonderworker by the grace of God ; an anointed 
calumniator of the world whom the devil seize ! 

But the devil is never on the spot proper for him. 
He always cometh too late, that cursed dwarf and 
club-foot ! " 

Thus Zarathustra impatiently swore in his heart 
and meditated how, with his face turned away, he 
might pass unseen by the black man. But behold, it 
came to pass otherwise. For in the same moment 
the sitting one had seen him, and not unlike one who 
meeteth with an unlooked-for happiness, he jumped 
up and walked towards Zarathustra. 

"Whosoever thou art, thou wanderer," he said, 



"help one who hath gone astray, a seeker, an old 
man who may easily suffer injury here ! 

This world is strange and remote from me. Be- 
sides I heard wild beasts howl. And he who could 
have given me protection, liveth no more. 

I was in search of the last pious man, a saint and 
hermit, who alone had not heard in his forest what 
all the world knoweth to-day." 

" What knoweth all the world to-day ? " asked 
Zarathustra. " Is it that the old God liveth no more, 
in whom all the world once believed ? " 

"Thou sayest it," answered the old man sadly. 
"And I served this old God until his last hour. 

But now I am off duty, without a master, and yet 
neither free nor happy for a single hour, except in 

I have ascended these mountains, to arrange at 
last a festival for myself once more, as behoveth an 
old pope and church-father (for be it known unto 
thee : I am the last pope ! ) a festival of pious 
memories and services. 

But now even he is dead, the most pious man, 
that saint in the forest who constantly praised his 
God with singing and humming. 

Himself I found no more when I found his hut. 
But I found two wolves therein which howled because 
of his death. For all animals loved him. Then I 
hasted away. 


Had I come in vain into these forests and moun- 
tains ? Then my heart resolved to seek another, the 
most pious of all those who believe not in God, to 
seek Zarathustra ! " 

Thus said the old man and gazed with keen eyes 
on him who stood in front of him. But Zarathustra 
seized the hand of the old pope and contemplated it 
a long while with admiration. 

Then he said : " See there, thou venerable one, what 
a beautiful long hand ! It is the hand of one that 
hath always given the benediction. But now it 
holdeth him tight whom thou seekest, myself, Zara- 

It is I, ungodly Zarathustra, who say : ' Who is 
ungodlier than I, that I may enjoy his teaching?" 

Thus spake Zarathustra and pierced with his glance 
the thoughts and back-thoughts of the old pope, who 
at last began : 

" He who loved Him and possessed him most, hath 
now lost him most ! 

Behold, I myself am probably at present of us two 
the ungodlier one ? But who could rejoice over 
that ? " 

" Thou servedst him unto the very last ? " asked 
Zarathustra thoughtfully after a deep silence, " thou 
knowest, how he died ? Is it true what folk say, that 
he was suffocated by pity ? 

That he saw how man hung on the cross, and could 


not endure that his love unto man should become his 
hell and at last his death ? " 

But the old pope answered not, but gazed aside shyly 
and with sullen cheer. 

"Let him go," said Zarathustra after long medita- 
tion, still gazing straight into the old man's eye. 

"Let him go, he is gone. And although it doth 
honour unto thee that thou speakest well of this dead 
one, thou knowest, as I do, who he was, and that he 
went strange ways." 

# " Spoken under three eyes," said the old pope cheer- 
fully (for he was blind of an eye) ; " in matters of God 
I am more enlightened than Zarathustra himself, and 
may well be so. 

My love served him long years ; my will followed 
all his will. And a good servant knoweth everything 
and even many things which his master hideth from 

He was a hidden God, full of secrecy. Verily, even 
his son he begat not otherwise than by a secret way. 
At the door of belief in him standeth adultery. 

Whoever praiseth him as a God of love, thinketh 
not highly enough of love itself. Did that God not 
also wish to be a judge ? But the loving one loveth 
beyond reward and retaliation. 

When he was young, that God from the East, he 
was hard and revengeful, and built up his hell for the 
delight of those he loved best. 


But at last he grew old and soft and mellow and 
full of pity, more like a grandfather than a father, but 
most like a shaky, old grandmother. 

There he sat, withered, at his fireside, grieved be- 
cause of his weak legs, weary of the world, weary 
of will, and one day suffocated by his all-too-great 

"Thou old pope," said Zarathustra interrupting, 
" hast thou seen that with thine own eyes ? It might 
have come to pass like that ; like that, and otherwise 
as well. When Gods die, they always die divers kinds 
of death. 

But up! This way or that, this way and that; he 
is gone ! He was contrary unto the taste of mine ears 
and eyes. Worse I should not like to say of him. 

I love everything that gazeth brightly and speak- 
eth honestly. But he thou knowest well, thou old 
priest, there was something of thy tribe in him, of 
the priestly tribe. He had many meanings. 

Besides, he was indistinct. How angry he was with 
us, this out-breather of wrath, because he thought we 
understood him ill. But why did he not speak more 
cleanly ? 

And if the fault was of our ears, why did he give 
us ears that heard badly ? And if there was mud in 
our ears, go to ! who had put it there ? 

In too many things he failed, this potter who had 
not served his apprenticeship ! But in taking revenge 



on his pots and creations, for having turned out ill, 
he committed a sin against good taste. 

There is good taste in piety also. And at last 
that good taste said : ' Away with such a God ! Rather 
have no God, rather be a fate for one's self, rather be 
a fool, rather be God one's self ! ' ' 

"What do I hear!" said then the old pope pricking 
up his ears ; " O Zarathustra, thou art more pious than 
thou believest, with such an unbelief ! Some God 
within thee hath converted thee unto ungodliness. 

Is it not thy piety itself that letteth thee no longer 
Relieve in a God ? And thine over-great honesty will 
one day lead thee even beyond good and evil ! Lo, 
what hath been reserved for thee ? Thou hast eyes 
and hand and mouth. They have been predestined 
from eternity for bestowing benedictions. One be- 
stoweth benedictions not with the hand alone. 

Although thou wouldst have thyself the ungodliest 
one, I perceive, when thou art nigh, a secret, holy, and 
goodly smell of long benedictions. From it I feel weal 
and woe. 

Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single 
night ! Nowhere on earth do I now feel better than 
with thee ! " 

" Amen ! So let it be ! " said Zarathustra in great 
astonishment. "Up there leadeth the way; there 
lieth the cave of Zarathustra. 

Verily, with joy would I lead thee there myself, 


thou venerable one ; for I love all pious men. But 
now a cry for help calleth me in haste away from 

In my province no one shall suffer injury. My cave 
is a good harbour. And best of all would I like to 
set every sad one on firm land and on firm legs once 

But who would take thy melancholy off thy shoul- 
ders ? For that I am too weak. A long time, verily, 
we should have to wait before one would re-awaken 
thy God. 

For this old God liveth no more. He is quite 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


And again Zarathustra's feet traversed the hills and 
mountains, and his eyes sought and sought, but no- 
where could they find him whom they longed to see, 
the great sufferer and crier for help. But all the 
way he rejoiced in his heart and was grateful. "What 
good things," said he, "have been given unto me by 
this day, to make up for it beginning so ill. What 
strange speech-makers I found ! 

Over their words I will now chew for a long 
time, as over good corn. Into morsels shall my tooth 
grind them and crush them, until they flow into my 
soul like milk ! " 

But when the road again went round a rock, at 
once the landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered 
a kingdom of death. Here black and red cliffs faced 
sternly upwards. No grass, no tree, no voice of bird. 
For it was a valley, shunned by all animals, even by 
the beasts of prey. Only a kind of ugly, thick, green 
snakes came thither, when they grew old, in order to 
die. Therefore that valley was called by the herds- 
men " Death of Snakes." 

But Zarathustra sank into dark recollections, for 


he felt as though he had stood in this valley once 
before. And many heavy things lay upon his mind, 
so that he walked slowly and even more slowly, and 
finally stood still. Then, suddenly, opening his eyes, 
he saw sitting on the wayside a something shaped 
like a man, but scarcely like a man, a something 


unutterable. And straightway Zarathustra was seized 
by a great shame for having cast his eyes upon such 
a thing. Blushing up unto his white hair he turned 
his look aside and lifted his foot to leave that evil 
spot. But then the dead desert took voice. For from 
the ground something gushed up gurgling and rattling, 
as water in the night gurgleth and rattleth through 
stopped water-pipes. And at last that something de- 
veloped into a human voice and a human speech which 
sounded thus : 

" Zarathustra ! Zarathustra ! read my riddle ! Speak, 
speak ! What is the revenge on the witness ! 

I tempt thee to return. Here is smooth ice! See 
unto it, see unto it, that thy pride do not here break 
its legs ! 

Thou seemest wise unto thyself, O proud Zara- 
thustra ! Read the riddle, read it, thou hard cracker 
of nuts, the riddle which I am! Say, say: who 
am I?" 

But when Zarathustra had heard these words, 
what think ye happened then unto his soul ? Pity 
attacked him. And all at once he fell down like an 


oak tree that hath long resisted many wood cutters, 
heavily, suddenly, unto the terror even of those about 
to fell it. But forthwith he rose from the ground, 
and his face grew hard. 

"I know thee well," he said with a brazen voice. 
"Thou art the miirderer of God! Let me go! 

Thou didst not endure him who saw thee, who saw 
thee always, and through and through, thou ugliest 
man ! Thou tookest revenge on this witness ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra and was departing. But 
tjie unutterable one grasped after the tail of his coat 
and began again to gurgle and seek after words. 
" Stay ! " he said at last. 

" Stay ! Pass not by ! I have found out what axe 
hath laid thee low. All hail unto thee, O Zarathustra, 
because thou standest again ! 

Thou foundest out, I know v/ell enough, the mood 
of His slayer, the mood of the murderer of God. 
Stay ! Sit down beside me. It is not in vain. 

Unto whom did I intend to go, if not unto thee? 
Stay, sit down ! But look not at me ! Honour in that 
way my ugliness ! 

They persecute me. Thou art now my last refuge. 
Not with their hatred, not with their catchpoll. Oh, 
I would scoff at such a persecution ! I would be 
proud and rejoice at it ! 

Hath not all success hitherto been with the well 
persecuted ? And whoever persecuteth well, learneth 


easily how to follow. For he is behind somebody! 
But it is their pity 

It is their pity from which I flee and flee unto 
thee. O Zarathustra, protect me, thou my last refuge, 
thou only one who didst find me out ! 

Thou didst find out the mood of His slayer. Stay ! 
And if thou wilt depart, thou impatient one, take 
not the way I have come. That way is bad. 

Art thou angry with me, because I have minced my 
words too long ? because I have counselled thee already ? 
Be it known unto thee : it is I, the ugliest man, 

Who have also the largest, heaviest feet. Where 
/ have gone, the road is bad. I trample unto death, 
and ruin all roads. 

But that thou didst pass me by, silent ; that thou 
didst blush, I saw well. Thereby I knew thee to be 

Any other man would have thrown his alms unto 
me, his pity, with look and speech. But for that I 
am not beggar enough, as thou didst find out. 

For that I am too rich, rich in great things, in 
terrible things, in the most ugly things, in the most 
unutterable things ! Thy blushing, O Zarathustra, 
honoured me ! 

With much trouble I have got away from the 
thronging of the pitiful, in order to find the only 
one who teacheth to-day : ' Pity is an intruder.' To 
find thyself, O Zarathustra ! 


Be it a God's, be it men's pity : pity is contrary 
unto shame. And not to will to help may be nobler 
than that virtue which readily giveth assistance. 

But that is to-day called virtue indeed by all petty 
folk : viz., pity. They feel no reverence for great mis- 
fortune, for great ugliness, for great failure. 

Over all these I gaze into the distance, as a 
dog gazeth over the backs of dense flocks of sheep. 
They are petty gray folk with good wool and good 

As a heron gazeth scornfully over shallow ponds, 
with its head laid back, thus I gaze on the dense 
crowd of gray small waves and wills and souls. 

Too long have they been admitted to be right, 
these petty folk. Thus at last they have also been 
given power. Now they teach : ' Good is only what 
the petty folk approve.' 

And it is to-day called truth what that preacher 
hath said, who sprung from themselves, that strange 
saint and advocate of the petty folk who proclaimed 
of himself: 'I I am the truth.' 

This immodest one hath now for a long time reared 
the crest of the petty folk he who taught no small 
error when he taught : ' I am the truth.' 

Hath an immodest one ever been answered more 
politely ? But thou, O Zarathustra, didst pass him by 
and say : ' Nay ! Nay ! Three times Nay ! ' 

Thou didst warn folk of his error, thou wert the 


first to warn against pity not all, not none, but 
thyself and thy tribe. 

Thou art ashamed of the shame of the great 
sufferer. And, verily, when thou sayest : ' From pity 
there cometh a great cloud, ye men beware ; ' 

When thou teachest : ' All creators are hard, all 
great love is raised above their pity ; ' O Zara- 
thustra, how well read thou seemest unto me in 
weather-omens ! 

But thyself, warn also thyself against thy pity ! 
For many are on the way unto thee, many suffering, 
doubting, despairing, drowning, cold folk. 

I also warn thee against myself. Thou hast found 
out my best, my worst riddle, myself and what I had 
done. I know the axe that layeth thee low. 

But He was compelled to die. He looked at things 
with eyes that saw everything. He saw the depths 
and abysses of man, all his hidden shame and 

His pity knew no shame. He crept into my foulest 
corners. This most curious, over-officious, over-pitiful 
one was compelled to die. 

He always saw myself. On such a witness I wished 
to take revenge, or rather not to live at all ! 

The God who saw everything, including man this 
God was compelled to die ! Man endureth not that 
such a witness should live." 

Thus spake the ugliest man. But Zarathustra got 


up and prepared to depart. For he was shuddering 
unto his very bowels. 

"Thou unutterable one," said he, "thou didst warn 
me against thy road. In thanks for that I praise 
mine unto thee. Behold, up that way lieth Zara- 
thustra's cave. 

My cave is large and deep and hath many corners. 
There the best hidden one findeth a hiding-place. 
And close unto it are an hundred things to slip under 
and creep past, for creeping, fluttering, and leaping 

Thou outcast who castest thyself out, thou wilt not 
stay among men and human pity ? Up, act like me ! 
Thus thou learnest even from me. The doer alone 

And speak first, and first of all, with mine animals ! 
The proudest animal and the wisest animal they 
might be the proper counsellors for us both ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, still 
more thoughtful and slow than before. For he asked 
himself many things and did not easily know the 

" How poor is man after all ! " he thought in his 
heart. "How ugly, how rattling, how full of hidden 
shame ! 

I am told that man loveth himself. Alas, how 
great must that self-love be ! How much contempt 
hath it opposed unto it ! 


Even that man there loved himself even as he 
despised himself. A great lover is he, methinketh, 
and a great despiser. 

Never yet have I found any one who did despise 
himself more deeply. Even that is height. Alas ! can 
he have been the higher man whose cry I heard ? 

I love the great despisers. But man is a some- 
thing that must be surpassed." 


When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he felt 
cold and he felt lonely. For many cold and lonely 
things passed through his mind, chilling even his limbs. 
But when walking on and on, upwards, downwards, 
now passing green meadows, then over wild stony 
Strata where once peradventure an impatient brook 
had lain down to sleep, he felt all at once warmer 
and heartier again. 

" What hath happened unto me ? " he asked himself. 
" Something warm and living refresheth me. It must 
be nigh unto me. 

Already I am less alone. Unconscious companions 
and brethren hover round me; their warm breath 
toucheth my soul." 

But when he looked round him and searched for 
the comforters of his loneliness, behold, there were 
cows standing on a hill together. Their nearness 
and smell had warmed his heart. But these cows 
seemed to listen eagerly unto a speaker, and took 
no notice of him who approached them. But when 
Zarathustra was quite nigh unto them, he heard dis- 
tinctly a human voice out of the midst of the cows. 



And apparently all of them had turned their heads 
unto the speaker. 

Then Zarathustra eagerly hurried up and pushed 
the animals aside. For he feared that unto some one 
harm had been done, which could scarcely be cured 
by the pity of cows. But therein he erred. For, 
behold, there sat a man on the ground and seemed 
to persuade the animals not to be shy of him, a 
peaceful man and mount -preacher, out of whose eyes 
kindness itself preached. "What seekest thou here?" 
exclaimed Zarathustra astonished. 

"What I seek here?" the man answered. "The 
same thing as thou seekest, thou disturber ! I.e., 
happiness on earth ! 

For that purpose I would fain learn from these 
cows. For dost thou know ? Already half the morn- 
ing I have been addressing them ; and now they were 
on the point of giving me their answer. Why dis- 
turbest thou them ? 

If we do not turn and become like the cows, we 
shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. For we 
should learn from them one thing : to ruminate. 

And, verily, if man were to gain "the whole world 
and would not learn the one thing, to ruminate of 
what good would it be ? He would not get rid of his 
affliction ! 

Of his great affliction. But that to-day is called 
loathing- ! Whose heart, mouth, and eyes are not 


filled to-day with loathing ? Thou also ! Thou also ! 
But behold these cows ! " 

Thus spake the mount-preacher, and then turned 
his own look unto Zarathustra. For until then it 
had clung lovingly unto the cows. Then he suddenly 
changed. " Unto whom do I speak ? " he exclaimed 
terrified, and leaped up from the ground. 

" This is the man without loathing, this is Zara- 
thustra himself, the overcomer of the great loathing. 
This is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart of 
.Zarathustra himself." 

And speaking thus he kissed the hands of him 
unto whom he spake, with his eyes overflowing, and 
behaved like unto one for whom a valuable gift 
and treasure hath fallen from heaven unawares. But 
the cows gazed at all that and wondered. 

" Speak not of me, thou strange one, sweet one ! " 
said Zarathustra restraining his affection. "Speak 
first of thyself! Art thou not the voluntary beggar 
who once threw away vast riches, 

Who was ashamed of his riches and of the rich, 
and fled unto the poorest in order to give them his 
abundance and his heart? But they accepted him 

"But they accept him not," said the voluntary 
beggar, " thou knowest it, I see. Thus at last I have 
come unto the animals and unto these cows." 

"There thou learnedst," said Zarathustra interrupt- 


ing the speaker, "how much harder it is, to give 
properly than to take properly, and that to give well 
is an art and the last and cunningest master-art of 

" In particular, nowadays," answered the voluntary 
beggar, " i.e., to-day, when all that is low hath become 
rebellious and shy and high-minded in its own way, 
i.e., in the way of the mob. 

For the hour hath come, thou knowest it, for the 
great, bad, long, slow rebellion of the mob and the 
slaves. It groweth and groweth ! 

Now all almsgiving and petty giving make the low 
rebellious. And the over-rich ought to be on their 
guard ! 

Whoever to-day letteth drops fall, as doth a big- 
bellied bottle, out of an all-too-narrow neck the neck 
of such a bottle is gladly broken to-day. 

Voluptuous greediness, bilious envy, angry revenge, 
pride of the mob, all these things leaped into my 
face. It is no longer true that the poor are blessed. 
But the kingdom of heaven is with the cows." 

" And why is it not with the rich ? " asked Zara- 
thustra tempting, while keeping back the cows which 
familiarly sniffed at the peaceful one. 

" Why dost thou tempt me ? " answered he. "Thou 
knowest it thyself still better than I do. What drove 
me unto the poorest, O Zarathustra ? Was it not my 
loathing of our richest ones ? 


Of the convicts guilty of riches, who collect their 
profit out of all rubbish heaps, with cool eyes and 
voluptuous thoughts of that rabble that stinketh 
unto heaven, 

Of that gilded-over, falsified mob, whose fathers 
were thieves or birds of carrion, or rag-gatherers with 
wives complaisant, voluptuous, and forgetful (for none 
of them hath a far way to go to become a whore). 

Mob at the top, mob below ! What are to-day 
' poor ' and ' rich ' ! this distinction have I unlearnt. 
Then I fled away, further, ever further, until I came 
unto these cows." 

Thus spake the peaceful one and snuffed himself 
and perspired over his words, so that the cows won- 
dered again. But Zarathustra, all the time the man 
was speaking so bitterly, gazed with a smile into his 
face, and silently shook his head. 

"Thou dost violence unto thyself, thou mount- 
preacher, in using such bitter words. For such bit- 
terness neither thy mouth nor eye was made. 

Nor, methinketh, even thy stomach. Unto it all 
such anger and hatred and overflowing are repugnant. 
Thy stomach desireth gentler things. Thou art not 
a butcher. 

Thou rather seemest unto me to be an eater of 
plants and roots. Perhaps thou grindest corn. But 
certainly thou art averse from the pleasures of the 
flesh and thou lovest honey." 


" Thou hast well found me out," answered the 
voluntary beggar with his heart lightened. " I love 
honey, I also grind corn, for I sought what tasteth 
sweetly and maketh the breath pure. 

I sought also what needeth a long time, namely 
a day's work and a month's work for gentle idlers 
and sluggards. 

The highest point, it is true, hath been reached 
by these cows. They invented ruminating and lying 
in the sunshine. They also abstain from all heavy 
thoughts that cause flatulence in the heart." 

"Go to!" said Zarathustra. "Thou shouldst see 
mine animals as well, mine eagle and my serpent. 
Their like doth not exist on earth this day. 

Behold, in this direction leadeth the way unto my 
cave. Be this night its guest ! And speak with mine 
animals of the happiness of animals, 

Until I return home myself. For now a cry for 
help calleth me away from thee in haste. Thou also 
wilt find fresh honey with me, golden honey with 
comb, as cold as ice. Eat it. 

But now take swift farewell of thy cows, thou 
strange one, thou sweet one ! although it may be 
hard unto thee. For they are thy dearest friends 
and teachers ! " 

" One excepted whom I love still more," answered 
the voluntary beggar. "Thou art thyself good, and 
better even than a cow, O Zarathustra ! " 


" Away, away with thee, thou evil flatterer ! " cried 
Zarathustra mischievously. " Why dost thou spoil me 
with such praise and honey of flattery ? 

Away, away from me ! " he cried once more and 
swung his stick after the affectionate beggar, who ran 
hastily away. 


When the voluntary beggar had hasted away and 
Zarathustra was again alone with himself, behind him 
he heard a new voice crying : " Halt ! Zarathustra ! 
Wait ! wait ! It is I, O Zarathustra, I, thy shadow ! " 
But Zarathustra waited not ; for a sudden annoyance 
seized him because of the great crowding and throng- 
ing in his mountains. "Whither hath my loneliness 
gone ?" he said. 

"This, verily, is becoming too much for me. These 
mountains are overcrowded ; my kingdom is no longer 
of this world ; I need new mountains. 

My shadow calleth me ? What matter for my 
shadow ? Let it run after me ! I run away from it." 

Thus spake Zarathustra unto his heart and ran 
away. But he who was behind him, followed him, 
so that very soon three runners were on the way, 
one behind the other. For in the front was the volun- 
tary beggar, then followed Zarathustra, and the third 
and last was his shadow. Not long had they run, 
until Zarathustra came out of his folly and back unto 
reason, and of a sudden he shook off all annoyance 
and disgust. 




"What!" said he, "have not at all times the most 
ridiculous things happened unto us old hermits and 
saints ? 

Verily, my folly hath grown high in the mountains ! 
Now I hear rattle behind each other six legs of 
old fools ! 

But is it allowed unto Zarathustra to be afraid of 
his shadow ? Besides methinketh in the long run, it 
hath longer legs than I." 

Thus spake Zarathustra, laughing with eyes and 
intestines. He stopped and turned quickly round. 
And, behold, in so doing he almost threw his follower 
and shadow unto the ground. So close did the latter 
follow at his heels, and so weak he was. When he 
looked intently upon him, Zarathustra was terrified as 
by a sudden ghost. So thin, black, hollow, and worn- 
out looked that follower. 

"What art thou?" asked Zarathustra violently; 
" what dost thou here ? And why callest thou thy- 
self my shadow? Thou pleasest me not." 

" Forgive me," answered the shadow, " that it is I. 
And if I please thee not well, O Zarathustra, in that 
respect I praise thee and thy good taste. 

A wanderer am I who hath already gone far at 
thy heels ; ever on the way, but without a goal and 
without a' home, so that, verily, I fall little short of 
being the eternal, wandering Jew, except that I am 
neither eternal nor a Jew. 


What ? Must I be ever on the way ? Whirled 
about by every wind, unstable, driven away ? O earth, 
thou hast grown too round for me ! 

On every surface I have sat. Like the wearied 
dust, I have fallen asleep on looking-glasses and 
window-panes. Everything taketh from me, nothing 
giveth ; I become thin, I am almost like a shadow. 

But after thee, O Zarathustra, I have flown and 
travelled longest. And though I hid myself from 
thee, yet have I been thy best shadow. Wherever 
thou hast sat, there sat I. 

With thee I have haunted the remotest, coldest 
worlds, like a ghost that voluntarily walketh over 
wintry roofs and snow. 

With thee have I striven for everything forbidden, 
the worst and remotest. And if anything in me is 
virtue, it is that I had no fear in the presence of 
any prohibition. 

With thee have I broken whatever my heart re- 
vered ; all landmarks and pictures I threw down ; I 
pursued the most dangerous wishes. Verily, I have 
traversed every crime once. 

With thee I unlearned the belief in words and 
values and great names. When the devil casteth his 
skin, doth not his name fall off as well ? For that 
is also skin. Perhaps the devil himself is skin. 

' Nothing is true, everything is lawful,' thus I spake 
unto myself. Into the coldest waters I threw myself 



with head and heart. Oh, how often have I stood 
naked, red like a crab through so doing ! 

Alas, whither hath gone all that is good and all 
shame and all belief in the good ! Alas, whither hath 
gone that deceitful innocence I once possessed, the 
innocence of the good and of their noble falsehoods ! 

Too often, verily, I followed truth close on its heel. 
Then it kicked me on the forehead. Sometimes I 
thought I lied, and behold ! only then did I hit upon 
truth ! 

Too many things were made clear unto me. Now 
it concerneth me no more. Nothing of what I love 
liveth any longer, why should I love myself still ? 

'To live, as I like, or to live not at all,' thus I 
will, thus even the holiest one willeth. But alas ! 
how do / still like ? 

Have / still a goal ? A harbour for which my 
sail is trimmed ? 

A good wind ? Alas, only he who knoweth whither 
he saileth, knoweth also what wind is good, and what 
is his fair wind. 

What is left unto me ? A heart weary and insolent ; 
an unstable will ; fluttering wings ; a broken back-bone. 

This seeking after my home, O Zarathustra, knowest 
thou ? this seeking was my punishment, it eateth me up. 

' Where is my home ? ' Thus I ask and seek and 
have sought. I have found it not. Oh, eternal Every- 
where ! Oh, eternal Nowhere ! Oh, eternal In-vain ! " 


Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's face 
grew longer when he heard his words. "Thou art 
my shadow ! " he said sadly at last. 

"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and wan- 
derer ! Thou hast had a bad day. See unto it, that a 
worse evening be not added. 

Unto such unstable ones, as thou art, at last even 
a prison seemeth bliss. Sawest thou ever how capt- 
ured criminals sleep ? They sleep quietly ; they enjoy 
their new security. 

Beware lest at last a narrow creed catch thee, a 
hard, severe illusion ! For thou art now seduced and 
tempted by everything narrow and firm. 

Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas ! how wilt thou bear 
and brook that loss ? By it thou hast also lost the 

Thou poor wandering one, thou fleeting one, thou 
weary butterfly ! Wilt thou have this night a place 
of rest and home ? If so, go up unto my cave ! 

Yonder goeth the way unto my cave. And now 
I will quickly run away from thee. Already some- 
thing lieth on me like a shadow. 

I will run alone, so that it may again grow light 
around me. For that purpose I must be yet a long 
while gaily on my legs. But in the evening at my 
home there will be a dance ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


And Zarathustra ran, and still ran, finding no one 
else, and was alone ever finding himself again. And 
he enjoyed and sipped his loneliness, thinking of 
good things, through many hours. But about the 
hour of noon, when the sun stood exactly over Zara- 
thustra's head, he passed by an old crooked and knaggy 
tree which was embraced round about by the rich love 
of a vine-plant and hidden from itself. From it an 
abundance of yellow grapes hung down, offering them- 
selves unto the wanderer. Then he felt a desire to 
quench a little thirst and to break off a grape. When 
he had stretched out his arm for it, he felt a still 
stronger desire for something else, to lie down beside 
the tree, about the hour of perfect noon, and to 

Zarathustra did so. And no sooner did he lie down 
on the ground, in the stillness and secrecy of the 
many-coloured grass, than he forgot his little thirst 
and fell asleep. For, as Zarathustra's saying hath it: 
"One thing is more necessary than the other." Only 
his eyes remained open. For they could not satisfy 
themselves with looking at the tree, and at the love 

2D 401 


of the vine-plant, and in praising them. But when 
falling asleep, Zarathustra spake thus unto his heart : 

" Hush ! hush ! Hath the world not this moment 
become perfect ? Oh, what happeneth unto me ? 

As a neat wind unseen danceth on the panelled 
sea, light, light as a feather, thus danceth sleep on me. 

Nor doth it shut mine eye ; it leaveth my soul 
awake. Light it is, verily, as light as a feather. 

It persuadeth me, I know not how. It toucheth 
me from the inside with a flattering hand. It com- 
pelleth me. Yea, compelleth me, so that my soul 
stretcheth itself out. 

How long and weary it groweth unto me, my 
strange soul ! Did the evening of a seventh day 
come unto it just at noon? Hath it already walked 
too long happy among good and ripe things ? 

It stretcheth itself out, long, long, longer ! It lieth 
still, my strange soul. Too many good things it hath 
tasted before. This golden sadness presseth upon it ; 
it maketh a wry mouth. 

Like a ship that hath entered her calmest bay ; 
(Now she leaneth towards the land, weary of the 
long voyages and the uncertain seas. Is not the 
land more faithful ? 

As such a ship putteth to the shore and goeth close 
in ; then it is enough that a spider spin its thread 
unto it from the land. No stronger ropes are re- 
quired there.) 



Like such a weary ship in the calmest bay, I now 
rest nigh unto the land, faithful, trusting, waiting, 
moored unto it with the gentlest threads. 

O happiness ! O happiness ! Wilt thou sing, O my 
soul ? Thou liest in the grass. But this is the 
secret, solemn hour, when no herdsman playeth on 
his flute. 

Keep off! Hot noon sleepeth on the fields. Sing 
not ! Hush ! The world is perfect. 

Sing not, thou grass-bird, O my soul ! Whisper 
not even ! Behold ! Hush ! the old noon sleepeth, 
it moveth its mouth. Doth it not this moment drink 
a drop of happiness 

An old brown drop of golden happiness, of golden 
wine ? Something glideth across it, its happiness 
laugheth. Thus laugheth a God. Hush ! 

'For happiness how little is required for happi- 
ness ! ' Thus I said once and thought myself wise. 
But it was a blasphemy. I have now learnt that. 
Wise fools speak better. 

Just what is least, gentlest, lightest, the rustling 
of a lizard, a breath, a moment, a twinkling of the 
eye little maketh the quality of the best happiness. 

What hath befallen me ? Hearken ! Did time fly 
away? Do I not fall? Did I not fall hearken !- 
into the well of eternity ? 

What befalleth me ? Hush ! It stingeth me alas ! 


unto the heart? Unto the heart! Oh, break, break, 
heart, after such happiness, after such a sting! 

What ? Hath the world not just become perfect ? 
Round and ripe ? Oh, for the golden round ring ! 
Whither doth it fly? Run after it! Away! 

Hush ! " (And here Zarathustra stretched himself 
out, feeling that he slept.) 

" Up ! " he said unto himself, " thou sleeper ! Thou 
sleeper at noon ! Up ! up ! ye old legs ! Time it 
is and only too much time. Many a long stretch of 
road is still reserved for you ! 

Now ye have slept your fill. How long ? Half an 
eternity ! Up ! up ! now, mine old heart ! How long 
wilt thou, after such a sleep, be allowed to have thy 
fill of wakefulness ? " 

But then he fell asleep afresh, and his soul spake 
against him, and defended itself, and lay down again. 
"Oh, let me alone! Hush! Hath not the world be- 
come perfect this moment ? Oh, for the golden, round 

Get up," said Zarathustra, "thou little thief, thou 
thief of days ! What ! Still longer wilt thou stretch 
thyself out, yawn, sigh, fall down into deep wells ? 

Who art thou ? O my soul ! " (And here he was 
terrified ; for a sun-beam fell down from the sky 
upon his face.) 

"O sky above me!" said he sighing and sat up- 
right. "Thou gazest at me? Thou hearkenest unto 
my strange soul ? 

AT NOON 405 

When drinkest thou this drop of dew that hath 
fallen down on all things earthly? When drinkest 
thou this strange soul? 

When, well of eternity ? Thou gay, shuddering 
abyss of noon ! When drinkest thou my soul back 
into thyself?" 

Thus spake Zarathustra and arose from his resting- 
place nigh unto the tree, as from a strange drunken- 
ness. And behold ! there the sun still stood exactly 
above his head. And from that, some one might duly 
suppose that Zarathustra had not slept long. 


Late in the afternoon it was, when Zarathustra, 
after having searched and strayed about for a long 
time in vain, returned unto his cave. But when he 
stood over against unto it, no longer twenty steps 
distant from it, that thing came to pass which he ex- 
pected least. Anew he heard the great cry for help. 
And, astounding! this time it came from his own 
cave. And it was a long, manifold, strange cry. 
And Zarathustra distinguished clearly that it was 
composed of many voices, though, when heard from 
a distance, it might sound like a cry from a single 

Then Zarathustra hasted unto his cave, and be- 
hold ! what spectacle awaited him there after that 
concert ! For there they all sat together whom he 
had passed by during the day : the king on the right 
and the king on the left ; the old wizard ; the pope ; 
the voluntary beggar ; the shadow ; the conscientious 
one of the spirit ; the sad fortune-teller ; and the ass. 
And the ugliest man had put a crown on his head 
and tied round himself two purple belts. For, like 
all ugly folk, he liked to disguise himself and play 



the gallant. But in the midst of that sad company 
stood Zarathustra's eagle, its feathers ruffled and 
itself disquieted. For it had been asked to answer 
many questions for which its pride knew no answer. 
And the wise serpent hung round its neck. 

At all this Zarathustra looked with great astonish- 
ment. Then he examined each of his guests with 
gracious curiosity, read the contents of their souls, and 

was once more astonished. In the meantime they who 
had gathered there, had arisen from their seats and 
waited with reverence till Zarathustra should speak. 
And Zarathustra spake thus : 

" Ye despairing ones ! Ye strange ones ! Then it 
was your cry for help I heard ? And now also I know 
where he is to be sought whom I this day sought for 
in vain : the higher man. 

In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man ! But 
why am I astonished ? Have not I myself allured him 
unto myself, by honey offerings, and cunning, enticing 
calls of my happiness? 

But methinketh, ye are not very suitable to form 
a company, ye make each other's hearts angry, ye criers 
for help, when sitting together here ! One must first 

One who will make you laugh again, a good, gay 
clown, a dancer and a wind and romp, some old fool. 
What think ye? 

Forgive me, ye despairing ones, that in your pres- 


ence I speak with such small words, unworthy, verily ! 
of such guests ! But ye find not out what maketh my 
heart wanton. 

Ye yourselves do so, and your look, forgive me ! 
For every one becometh brave who looketh at a de- 
spairing one. To encourage a despairing one for 
that every one thinketh himself strong enough. 

Unto myself ye have given this power, a good gift, 
my lofty guests ! An honest guest's gift ! Well then, 
be not angry at me now offering you something of 
what is mine also. 

This here is my kingdom and my dominion. But 
whatever is mine shall be yours for this evening and 
this night. Mine animals shall serve you. My cave 
shall be your resting-place ! 

In mine own home and house no one shall despair. 
In my province I protect every one from his own wild 
beasts. And this is the first thing I offer you : se- 
curity ! 

But the second thing is my little finger. And if ye 
once have it, take the whole hand in addition, yea, and 
the heart with it ! Welcome here, welcome, my guests 
and friends ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra, laughing with love and 
wickedness. After this salutation his guests bowed 
again and were silent in reverence. And the king on 
the right answered him in their name. 

" From the way, O Zarathustra, that thou offeredst 



us thy hand and greeting, we know thee to be Zara- 
thustra. Thou didst humble thyself in our presence. 
Thou didst almost wound our reverence for thee. 

But who could, like thee, humble himself with such 
pride ? That uplifteth even us ; a refreshment is it 
unto our eyes and hearts. 

To behold this alone, we would gladly ascend higher 
mounts than this mount is. For we have come as 
eager sight-seers, we longed to see what maketh dim 
eyes bright. 

And behold, all our crying for help is past. Our 
sense and heart stand open and are enraptured. Little 
is lacking for our courage to become wanton. 

Nothing more agreeable, O Zarathustra, groweth on 
earth than a high, strong will. It is the most beautiful 
product of earth. A whole landscape is refreshed by 
one tree like that. 

With the pine, O Zarathustra, I compare him who 
groweth up like thee : tall, silent, hard, alone, of the 
best and most flexible wood, magnificent 

And who at last graspeth with strong, green boughs 
after his own dominion, asking strong questions in 
presence of winds and thunderstorms, and whatever is 
at home on heights 

And who giveth stronger answers, a commander, a 
victorious one ! Oh ! who would not ascend high 
mounts in order to see such products ? 

In thy tree, O Zarathustra, even the gloomy one, 


the ill-constituted one, rejoiceth ; at sight of thee even 
the restless one becometh sure and healeth his heart. 

And, verily, unto thy mount and thy tree this day 
many eyes direct themselves ; a great longing hath 
arisen, and many folk learned to ask : ' Who is Zara- 
thustra ? ' 

And they into whose ear thou hast ever dropped thy 
song and thy honey, all the hidden, the hermits, and 
hermits in pairs, spake all at once unto their hearts 
thus : 

' Liveth Zarathustra still ? It is no longer worth 
while to live. Everything is equal, everything is in vain. 
If that is to be not so, we must live with Zarathustra ! 

Why cometh not he who hath announced himself so 
long ? ' thus many ask. ' Did loneliness devour him ? 
Or peradventure we meant to come unto him ? ' 

Now it cometh to pass that loneliness itself waxeth 
mellow and breaketh like a grave, which breaketh and 
can no longer keep its dead. Everywhere one seeth 
risen ones. 

Now rise and rise the waves around thy mount, O 
Zarathustra ! And however high be thy height, many 
must ascend unto thee. Thy boat shall not long sit on 
the dry ground! 

And that we despairers have now come into thy 
cave, and already despair no more it is merely a sign 
and omen that better ones are on the way unto thee. 

For itself is on the way unto thee, the last relic 


of God among men, *.<?., all the men of the great 
longing, of the great loathing, of the great satiety 

All those who do not wish to live, unless they 
learn to hope again ; unless they learn from thee, O 
Zarathustra, the great hope ! " 

Thus spake the king on the right, and seized Zara- 
thustra's hand in order to kiss it. But Zarathustra 
hindered his doing reverence and stepped back terri- 
fied, as silent and suddenly as though he fled into 
far distances. But in a little while he was once more 
with his guests, gazed at them with bright questioning 
eyes, and said : 

" My guests, ye higher men, I will speak in German 
and clearly unto you. Not for you have I waited here 
in these mounts." 

(" In German and clearly t God-a-mercy ! " said then 
the king on the left, secretly. "One seeth that he 
knoweth not the dear Germans, this sage from the East ! 

But he meaneth ' In German and coarsely.' Well ! 
that is nowadays not quite the worst taste ! ") 

"Verily, all of you may be higher men," continued 
Zarathustra. " But for me, ye are not high and strong 

For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which 
is now silent in me, but will not always be silent. 
And if ye belong unto me, ye do so not as my right 
arm doth. 

For whoever standeth himself on sick and weak 


legs, like you, wisheth above all (whether he knoweth 
it or hideth it from himself) to be spared. 

But mine arms and my legs I spare not, my warriors 
I spare not. How could ye be fit for my warfare ? 

By you I should spoil every victory of mine. And 
many a one of you would fall unto the ground on 
hearing the loud noise of my drums. 

Besides ye are not beautiful and well-born enough 
for me. I need pure, smooth mirrors for my doctrines. 
On your surface even mine own image is distorted. 

Your shoulders are pressed by many a burden, 
many a memory. Many an evil dwarf squatteth in 
your corners. There is hidden mob within even 

And though ye be high and of a higher tribe, 
many things in you are crooked and misshapen. 
There is no blacksmith in the world to hammer you 
into shape and straightness. 

Ye are only bridges. Would that higher ones would 
stride over you unto the other side ! Ye signify stairs. 
Then be not angry with him who riseth above you 
unto his own height ! 

From your seed one day there may spring unto 
me a genuine son and perfect heir. But that is 
remote. Ye yourselves are not those unto whom 
belong mine heirship and name. 

Not for you wait I in these mounts ; not with you 
am I allowed to step down for the last time. Ye have 


come unto me merely as omens, that higher ones are 
on the way unto me. 

Not the men of the great longing, of the great loathing, 
of the great satiety, and what you called the relic of God. 

Nay ! Nay ! Three times Nay ! For others I wait 
here in these mounts, and will not lift my feet to 
depart without them. 

I wait for higher ones, stronger ones, more victorious 
ones, more cheerful ones, such as are built square in 
body and soul. Laughing lions must come ! 
, O my friends and guests, ye strange ones! Heard 
ye nothing of my children ? And that they are on the 
way unto me ? 

Speak, speak of my gardens, of my blissful islands, 
of my new beautiful kin. Why speak ye not of them 
unto me ? 

This guest-gift I request from your love, that ye 
speak of my children. Therefore am I rich, therefore 
become I poor. What have I not given away ? 

What would I not give away, in order to have one 
thing : these children, this living plantation, these trees 
of life of my will and of my highest hope ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra and suddenly stopped in 
his speech. For he was seized by his longing, and 
he closed his eyes and mouth against the movement 
of his heart. And all his guests were silent also and 
stood still and confounded. Only the old fortune-teller 
made signs with hands, and gestures. 


For at that point the fortune-teller interrupted the 
salutation between Zarathustra and his guests. He 
pressed forward like one who hath no time to lose, 
seized Zarathustra's hand and cried : " But, Zara- 
thustra ! 

' One thing is more necessary than another,' thus 
thou thyself sayest. Go to ! One thing is now more 
necessary for me than any other. 

A word at the proper time : didst thou not invite 
me to a meal ? And here are many who have made 
long journeys. I suppose, thou meanest not to feed 
us with speeches merely ? 

Besides all of you have thought far too much for 
my taste about dying of cold, by drowning, by suf- 
focation, and about other sorts of bodily danger. But 
no one thought of my sort of danger, i.e., of dying of 

(Thus spake the fortune-teller. But when Zara- 
thustra's animals heard these words, they ran away 
with terror. For they saw that all they had brought 
in during the day, would not be sufficient to fill even 
this one fortune-teller's stomach.) 



" Including dying from thirst," the fortune-teller 
went on. "And although I hear water gurgle here, 
like speeches of wisdom, i.e., abounding and never 
tired I want wine ! 

Not every one is a born water-drinker like Zarathus- 
tra. Neither is water good for weary and withered 
ones. For us wine is proper. Only it giveth us a 
sudden vigour and health there and then ! " 

Whereupon, when the fortune-teller asked for wine, 
it came to pass that the king on the left, the silent 
one, for once had a chance to speak. "Wine," he 
Said, "hath been provided by us, by myself and my 
brother, the king on the right. We have enough of 
wine, a whole ass-ful. So nothing is lacking but 

" Bread ! " answered Zarathustra laughing. " It is 
just bread that hermits lack. But man liveth not by 
bread alone, but also by the flesh of good lambs, of 
which I have two. 

They shall be killed swiftly and cooked spicily, with 
sage. That is my taste. Neither are roots nor fruits 
lacking. There is enough of them even for gorman- 
disers and epicures. Nor are nuts lacking, or other 
riddles to crack. 

Thus in a little while we will have a good meal. 
But he who meaneth to eat with us, must also put 
his hand unto the work, the kings included. For in 
Zarathustra's home even a king may be a cook." 


This proposal met the wishes of the hearts of all ; 
only that the voluntary beggar was against meat and 
wine and spices. 

" Now listen unto this glutton Zarathustra ! " he 
said jesting. " Doth one go into caves and high 
mounts to have such meals ? 

It is true, I understand now what we were once 
taught by him : ' Let petty poverty be praised ! ' 
And why he seeketh to abolish beggars." 

"Be of good cheer," answered Zarathustra, "as I 
am so. Be true unto thine own custom, thou excel- 
lent man, grind thy corn, drink thy water, praise 
thine own cookery, if it only make thee gay ! 

I am a law only for those who are mine, I am not 
a law for all. But whoever belongeth unto me, must 
be of strong bones, and of light feet, 

Gay for warfare and festivals, no obscurantist, no 
dreamer, one ready for what is hardest, like unto his 
festival, healthy and whole. 

What is best, belongeth unto my folk and myself. 
And if we are not given it, we take it, the best food, 
the purest sky, the strongest thoughts, the most 
beautiful women ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. But the king on the right 
answered : 

" Strange ! Have such clever things ever been 
heard from the mouth of a wise man ? 

And, verily, that is the strangest thing in a wise 


man, if over and above he is clever and not an 

Thus spake the king on the right, and wondered. 
But the ass spitefully said Hee-Haw unto his speech. 
Thus began that long meal which is called "The 
Supper" in history- books. And during that meal 
nothing was spoken of but higher man. 



" When, for the first time, I went unto men, I com- 
mitted the hermit folly, the great folly. I stood in 
the marketplace. 

And speaking unto all, I spake unto none. But in 
the evening, rope-dancers were my companions, and 
corpses ; and I myself was almost a corpse. 

But with the new morning a new truth came unto 
me. Then I learned to say : \ What matter for me 
market and mob, and mob's noise and the mob's long 
ears ! ' 

Ye higher men, learn this from me. In the market 
no one believeth in higher men. And if ye are going 
to speak there, it is well ! But the mob blink : ' We 
are all equal ! ' 

' Ye higher men,' thus the mob blink ' there are 
no higher men ; we are all equal ; man is man ; in the 
presence of God we are all equal ! ' 

In the presence of God ! But now that God hath 
died. But in the presence of the mob we do not wish 
to be equal. Ye higher men, depart from the market ! 




In the presence of God! But now hath that God 
died ! Ye higher men, this God hath been your 
greatest danger. 

Only since he hath lain in the grave, ye have 
arisen. Now only cometh the great noon, now only 
higher man becometh master! 

Understood ye this word, O my brethren ? Ye 
are terrified. Do your hearts grow giddy ? Yawneth 
here an abyss for you? Barketh unto you here the 

Up ! up ! ye higher men ! It is only now that 
the mount of man's future giveth birth unto anything. 
God hath died. Now we wish beyond-man to live. 


The most careful ask to-day : 'How is man pre- 
served ? ' But Zarathustra asketh as the only and 
first one: 'How is man surpassed?' 

Beyond-man is my care ; with me, he and not man 
is the first and only thing. Not the neighbour, not 
the poorest one, not the greatest sufferer, not the 
best one. 

O my brethren, what I can love in man, is that he 
is a transition and a destruction. And even in you 
there are many things which make me love and hope. 


That ye had scorn, ye higher men, that maketh me 
hope. For the great scorners are the great reverers. 

That ye despaired, therein is much to honour. For 
ye did not learn how to give yourselves up; ye did 
not learn petty policies. 

For to-day the petty folk have become master. 
They all preach submission and resignation and policy 
and diligence and regard and the long etcetera of 
petty virtues. 

Whatever is of the women's tribe, whatever de- 
scendeth from the slaves' tribe, and especially from 
the mishmash of the mob these will now become 
master of all human fate. Oh, loathing ! loathing ! 
loathing ! 

These ask and ask and weary not with asking : 
' How cloth man preserve himself best, longest, and 
most agreeably ? ' Thereby they are the masters of 

Surpass these masters of to-day, O my brethren, 
the petty folk. They are the greatest danger for 
beyond-man ! 

Surpass, ye higher men, the petty virtues, the 
petty policies, the grains-of-sand-regards, the swarm- 
ing of ants, the miserable ease, the ' happiness of the 
greatest number ! ' 

And rather despair than give in ! And, verily, I 
love you for the very reason that ye know not how 
to live to-day, ye higher men ! For thus ye live best ! 


Have ye courage, O my brethren ? Are ye stout- 
hearted ? I do not mean courage in the presence of 
witnesses, but the courage of hermits and eagles, on 
which not even a God looketh any more. 

Cold souls, mules, blind folk, drunk folk I do not 
call stout-hearted. Courage hath he who knoweth 
fear, but subdueth fear; he who seeth the abyss, but 
with pride. 

He who seeth the abyss, but with an eagle's eyes ; 
he who grasp eth the abyss with an eagle's claws ; he 
hath courage. 


' Man is evil ' thus all the wisest men said unto 
me, as a comfort. Alas, if that be still true to-day ! 
For what is evil, is man's best power. 

'Man must become better and more evil,' thus 
/ teach. The evilest is necessary for the best of 

It may have been well for that petty folk's preacher 
to suffer and bear the burden of man's sin. But I 
rejoice in the great sin as in my great comfort. 

But such things are not said for long ears. Every 
word hath not its proper place in every mouth. 
These are fine, remote things. For them sheep's 
claws must not grasp ! 


Ye higher men, think ye that I live to make well 
what ye made badly ? 

Or think ye that I meant to pillow you sufferers 
more comfortably for the future ? Or to show new 
and easier footpaths unto you restless, gone astray 
on roads and mountains ? 

Nay ! Nay ! Three times Nay ! Ever more, ever 
better ones of your tribe shall perish. For ye shall 
have ever a worse and harder life. Only thus 

Only thus man groweth up unto that height where 
the lightning striketh and breaketh him ; high enough 
for the lightning ! 

Towards few things, towards long things, towards 
remote things, my mind and my longing turn. What 
concern hath your petty, manifold short misery for 
me ! 

Ye do not yet suffer enough ! For ye suffer from 
yourselves, ye have never yet suffered from man. Ye 
would lie, did ye say otherwise ! None of you suffereth 
from what / have suffered. 


It is not enough for me that the lightning causeth 
no more damage. I do not want to conduct it into 
the ground. It shall learn to work for me. 


My wisdom hath for long gathered like a cloud; 
it becometh stiller and darker. So doth every wisdom 
that shall one day give birth unto lightnings. 

Unto these men of to-day I do not seek to be a light, 
nor to be called a light by them. Them I will blind. 
O lightning of my wisdom ! Gouge their eyes out ! 


Will nothing beyond your capacity. There is an 
evil falsehood in such as will beyond their capacity. 

In particular if they will great things ! For they 
cause mistrust towards great things, these fine false 
coiners and actors 

Until at last they are deceivers in their own eyes, 
have squinting eyes, and are a whited worm-eatenness, 
hidden under strong words, under show-off-virtues, 
under shining false actions. 

Take great care with such, ye higher men ! For 
nothing is to-day regarded by me as more valuable 
and rare than honesty. 

Is this To-day not of the mob ? But the mob know 
not what is great, small, straight, and honest. They 
are innocently crooked, they always lie. 


Have to-day a good mistrust, ye higher men, ye 
courageous ! Ye with open hearts ! And keep your 
reasons secret ! For to-day is of the mob. 


But what the mob did not learn to believe without 
reason, who could upset that for them by reason ? 

In the marketplace one convinceth by gestures. 
But reasons make the mob mistrustful. 

And when in that field truth hath once won a 
victory, ask yourselves with good mistrust : ' What 
powerful error hath fought the battle for it ? ' 

Take care also of scholars ! They hate you. For 
they are sterile ! They have cold, dried-out eyes. 
Before them every bird lieth unfeathered. 

Such folk boast that they do not lie. But impo- 
tence to lie is by no means love unto truth. Take 
care ! 

Freedom from fever is by no means perception ! 
I do not credit anything from minds chilled through 
and through. He who cannot lie, knoweth not what 
truth is. 


If ye want to rise high, use your own legs ! Do 
not let yourselves be carried upwards, sit not down 
on strange backs and heads ! 

But thou didst mount a horse? Now thou swiftly 
ridest up unto thy goal ? Up ! my friend. But thy 
lame leg sitteth with thee on horseback ! 

When thou hast reached thy goal ; when thou 
alightest from thy horse ; exactly on thy height, thou 
higher man ; thou wilt stumble ! 



Ye creators, ye higher men ! One is pregnant 
only of one's own child. 

Let nothing be said in your presence, be not per- 
suaded by anything ! Who then is your neighbour ? 
And even suppose ye act 'for the neighbour,' ye 
do not create for him ! 

Unlearn this ' for,' I pray, ye creators ! Your very 
virtue wanteth you to do nothing with 'for' and 'for 
tjie sake of ' and ' because.' To protect yourselves from 
these deceitful little words, ye shall glue up your ear. 

That 'for the neighbour' is the virtue merely of 
the petty folk. They say : ' like and like ' and ' hand 
washeth hand.' They have neither the right nor the 
power for your self-interest ! 

In your self-interest, ye creators, is the caution 
and providence of the childbearing ones ! What no 
one hath ever seen with his eyes, the fruit, is pro- 
tected and spared and nourished with all your love. 

Where all your love is, with your child, there also 
is all your virtue ! Your work, your will is your 
'neighbour.' Allow not yourselves to be talked into 
false values. 


Ye creators, ye higher men! He who must give 
birth is ill. But he who hath given birth is impure. 


Ask women ! One giveth not birth because the 
giving of birth causeth pleasure. The pain causeth 
hens and poets to cackle. 

Ye creators, in you is much impure. The reason 
is that ye were compelled to be mothers. 

A new child ! Oh, how much new dirt hath with 
it been born into the world ! Go unto one side ! 
He who hath given birth shall wash his soul pure ! 


Be not virtuous beyond your ability ! And demand 
nothing from yourselves contrary unto probability ! 

Walk in the footsteps in which your fathers' virtue 
hath gone ! How could ye rise high, if your fathers' 
will riseth not with you ? 

But he who desireth to be a firstling, may see unto 
it, that he may not become a lastling also ! And 
where the vices of your fathers are, therein ye shall 
not strive to be saints. 

He whose fathers liked women and strong wines 
and wild boars what, if he were to demand chastity 
of himself ? 

It would be a folly ! It is much, verily, methinketh, 
for such an one, if he be the husband of one, or two, 
or three women. 

And if he would found monasteries and write over 
their gates : ' The way unto what is holy,' yet I 
would say : ' Wherefore ? It is a new folly ! 



He hath founded for himself a penitentiary and 
refuge. Much good may it do him ! But I do not 
believe in it.' 

In loneliness groweth whatever is brought by one 
into it, including the inner beast also. On account 
of that, many are counselled against loneliness ! 

Hath there ever been anything dirtier on earth 
than the saints of the desert ? Round them not only 
the devil was set free, but the swine also. 


Shy, ashamed, clumsy, like the tiger foiled in his 
leap thus, ye higher men, I have seen you often 
steal aside. A cast of yours had failed. 

But what matter ye dice-players ? Ye learned not 
play and mockery, as one must play and mock! Sit 
we not ever at a great table of mocking and playing ? 

And if ye have failed in great things, are ye, for 
that reason, yourselves a failure ? But if man is a 
failure up ! up ! 


The higher its kin is, the seldomer doth a thing 
succeed. Ye higher men here, are ye not all failures ? 

Be of good cheer ! What matter ? How many 
things are still possible! Learn to laugh at your- 
selves, as one must laugh ! 


What wonder that ye have failed and half-failed, 
ye half-broken ones ! In yourselves, doth not man's 
future throng and push ? 

Man's remotest, deepest, star-highest essence, his 
immense power do they not all seethe against each 
other in your pot ? 

What wonder that many a pot breaketh ! Learn 
to laugh at each other, as one must laugh ! Ye 
higher men, how many things are still possible ! 

And, verily ! how many things have already suc- 
ceeded. How rich is this earth in small, good, perfect 
things, in well-constituted things ! 

Put small, good, perfect things round yourselves, 
ye higher men ! Their golden ripeness healeth the 
heart. Perfect things teach hope. 


What hath hitherto been the greatest sin on earth ? 
Was it the word of him who said : ' Woe unto those 
who laugh here?' 

Did he himself find no reasons for laughing on 
earth ? If so, he sought but ill. A child even findeth 
reasons here. 

He did not love enough. Otherwise he would have 
loved us also, the laughers ! But he hated and mocked 
at us. Howling and gnashing of teeth we were prom- 
ised by him. 


Must one curse outright, where one doth not love ? 
That, meseemeth, is bad taste. But thus he did, this 
unconditioned one. He sprang from the mob. 

And he himself merely loved not enough. Other- 
wise he would have been less angry because he was 
not loved. All great love wanteth not love, it wanteth 

Go out of the way of all such unconditioned ones ! 
That is a poor, sick tribe, a mob-tribe. They look 
with ill-will on this life ; they have the evil eye for 
this earth. 

Go out of the way of all such unconditioned ones ! 
They have heavy feet and sultry hearts. They know 
not how to dance. How could earth be light unto 
such ! 


Crookedly all good things draw nigh unto their 
goal. Like cats they arch their backs, they purr 
inside with their near happiness. All good things 

The step betray eth whether one walketh already 
on his own road. See me walk ! But whoever draw- 
eth nigh unto his goal, danceth. 

And, verily, I have not become a statue. Not yet 
I stand, benumbed, blunt, like a stone, as a pillar. I 
love quick running. 

And although earth hath moors and thick affliction, 


he who hath light feet, runneth even over mud, and 
danceth as on well-swept ice. 

Raise your hearts, my brethren, high, higher ! And 
forget not your legs ! Raise also your legs, ye good 
dancers ! Moreover it is better still, if ye stand on 
your heads ! 


This crown of the laugher, the crown of rose-wreaths 
I myself have put this crown on my head ; I myself 
have proclaimed my laughter holy. No other one I 
found to-day strong enough for that. 

Zarathustra, the dancer, Zarathustra, the light one 
who waveth with his wings, a preparer of flight, waving 
unto all birds, prepared and ready, a blissful-frivolous 
one ; 

Zarathustra, the fortune-teller, Zarathustra, the true 
laugher, not impatient, not unconditioned ; one who 
loveth leaps and leaps aside I myself have put this 
crown on my head ! 


Raise your hearts, my brethren, high ! higher ! 
And forget not your legs ! Raise also your legs, ye 
good dancers. Moreover it is better still, if ye stand 
on your heads ! 

There are heavy animals in happiness, as in other 
things. There are club-feet from the beginning. 



Queerly they exert themselves, like an elephant which 
exerteth itself to stand on its head. 

But it is better still to be foolish with happiness 
than foolish with misfortune ; better to dance clumsily 
than to walk lame. Learn my wisdom from me, I 
pray. But even the worst thing hath two good reverse 

Even the worst thing hath good dancing legs. 
Learn, I pray, ye higher men, how to put yourselves 
on your right legs ! 

, Unlearn, I pray, all the horn-blowing of affliction, 
and all mob-sadness ! Oh, how sad seem unto me 
to-day the mob's buffoons ! But to-day is of the mob. 


Do like the wind when it rusheth forth from its 
mountain caves. Unto its own pipe it will dance. 
The seas tremble and leap beneath its footsteps. 

Praised be that good unruly spirit which giveth 
wings unto asses ; which milketh lionesses ; which 
cometh like a stormblast unto all To-day and all mob ; 

Which is an enemy unto all heads of thistles, and 
minds that pry into things, and unto all withered leaves 
and tares ! Praised be that wild, good, free spirit of 
the storm which danceth on moors and afflictions as 
on meadows ; 

Which hateth the dwindling dogs of the mob, and 


all the ill-constituted gloomy brood ! Praised be this 
spirit of all free spirits, the laughing storm which 
bloweth dust into the eyes of all black-sighted, sup- 
purative ones ! 

Ye higher men, what is worst in you, is that none 
of you hath learnt to dance, as one must dance to 
dance beyond yourselves ! What matter that ye are 
failures ? 

How many things are still possible ! Learn, I pray, 
to laugh beyond yourselves ! Raise your hearts, ye 
good dancers, high ! higher ! And forget not the 
good laughter ! 

This crown of the laugher, this crown of rose- 
wreaths unto you, my brethren, I throw this crown ! 
The laughter I have proclaimed holy. Ye higher men, 
learn how to laugh ! " 


When making these speeches, Zarathustra stood 
close unto the entrance of his cave. But when utter- 
ing the last words, he escaped from his guests and fled 
for a short while into the open air. 

"Oh, pure odours round me!" he exclaimed; "oh, 
blessed stillness round me ! But where are mine 
animals ? Come nigh, come nigh, mine eagle and my 
serpent ! 

Tell me, mine animals. These higher men alto- 
gether think ye, do they not smell well ? Oh, pure 
odours round me ! Now only I know and feel how I 
love you, mine animals ! " 

And Zarathustra repeated : " I love you, mine ani- 
mals ! " But the eagle and the serpent pressed round 
him, when he spake these words, and looked up unto 
him. In this way they were all three together at 
peace, and snuffed and drew in the good air together. 
For outside the air was better than among the higher 

2F 433 


But scarce had Zarathustra left his cave, when the 
old wizard got up, looked round cunningly and said : 
" He is gone out ! 

And straightway, ye higher men, (let me like him 
tickle you with this name of praise and flattery), 
straightway mine evil spirit of deceitfulness and en- 
chantment attacketh me, my melancholy devil ; 

Who is a fiend from the bottom unto this Zara- 
thustra. Forgive him ! Now he will practise magic 
in your presence ; it is exactly his hour. In vain I 
struggle with this evil spirit. 

Unto all of you, whatever honours ye may attribute 
unto yourselves in words, whether ye call yourselves 
'the free spirits,' or 'the truthful,' or 'the penitent 
of spirit* or 'the freed from fetters,' or 'the great 
longers ' 

Unto all of you who, like myself, suffer from the 
great loathingy for whom the old God hath died and 
no new God yet lieth in cradles and napkins unto 
all of you is mine evil spirit and magic devil friendly. 

I know you, ye higher men ; I know him. I also 
know that fiend whom I love involuntarily, this 
Zarathustra. He himself seemeth often unto me to 
be like a beautiful mask of a saint 

Like a new strange masquerade in which mine 
evil spirit, the melancholy devil, is pleased. I love 


Zarathustra thus it seemeth often unto me for the 
sake of mine evil spirit. 

But even now he attacketh me and constraineth 
me, this spirit of melancholy, this devil of the evening. 
And, verily, ye higher men, he longeth 

Open your eyes in astonishment ! he longeth, to 
appear naked, whether masculine, or feminine, I know 
not yet. But he cometh, he constraineth me, alas ! 
Open your senses ! 

The sound of the day dieth away. Unto all things 

now cometh the evening, even unto the best things. 

Listen now and look, ye higher men, what devil he 

is, this spirit of evening melancholy, whether man or 
woman ! " 

Thus spake the old wizard, looked round cunningly, 
and then seized his harp. 

" When the air hath become clear, 
When the comfort of the dew 
Gusheth down upon earth, 
Unseen, unheard, 
(For tender shoes are worn 
By the dew, the comforter, as by all who shed mild 

Rememberest thou, then, rememberest thou, O hot 



How once thou thirstedst 

For heavenly tears and the dropping of dew, 

How thou thirstedst, scorched and weary, 

Whilst on yellow grass-paths 

Wicked evening-like sun-glances 

Ran round thee through black trees, 

Blinding malicious glances of sun-glow ? 

' The suitor of truth ? Thou ? ' Thus they mocked. 

' Nay ! Merely a poet ! 

An animal, a cunning, preying, stealing one, 

Which must lie, 

Which must lie, consciously, voluntarily, 

Longing for prey, 

Disguised in many colours, 

A mask unto itself, 

A prey unto itself. 

That the suitor of truth? 

Only a fool ! a poet ! 

Only a speaker in many colours, 

Speaking in many colours out of fools' masks, 

Stalking about on deceitful word bridges, 

On deceitful rain-bows, 

Between false heavens 

Wandering, stealing about 

Only a fool ! a poet ! 

That the suitor of truth? 
Not still, numb, smooth, cold, 


Not become an image, 
A statue of a God ; 
Not set up in front of temples, 
A God's usher. 

Nay ! an enemy unto such statues of virtue, 
More at home in any wilderness than in temples, 
Full of a cat's wantonness, 
Leaping through every window, 
Swiftly, into every chance, 
Led by its scent into every primeval forest, 
In order to roam about in primeval forests, 
Among many-coloured shaggy beasts of prey, 
Sinfully-healthy and beautiful and many-coloured, 
To run about with longing lips, 
Blissfully-mocking, blissfully-hellish, blissfully-blood- 
Preying, stealing, lying. 

Or like the eagle that long, 

Long gazeth benumbed into abysses, 

Into its own abysses ! 

Oh, how they here wriggle downwards, 

Down, down 

Into ever deeper depths ! 



With straight flight, 

With a sharp attack, 


Swoop down on lambs, 

Head foremost, greedy, 

Longing for lambs, 

Angry with all lamb-souls, 

In sore anger with whatever gazeth 

Virtuous, sheep-like, with curly wool, 

Stupid with the benevolence of lamb's milk ! 


Like eagles, like panthers, 

Are the poet's longings, 

Are thy longings under a thousand masks, 

Thou fool ! Thou poet ! 

Who sawest man 
As a God and a sheep, 
To tear the God in man, 
Like the sheep in man, 
And to laugh in tearing. 

That, that is thy bliss, 
A panther's and an eagle's bliss, 
A poet's and a fool's bliss ! 
When the air hath become clear, 
And the sickle of the moon, 
Green between purple reds 
And envious stealeth along, 
An enemy unto day, 
Sweeping her sickle secretly 


Along hammocks of roses, 

At every step, until they sink, 

Sink down, pale, down into the night 

Thus I once fell downwards, 

Out of mine insanity of truth, 

Out of my longing of the day, 

Weary of the day, sick from the light, 

Fell, downwards, towards the night, towards the 


Burnt by, and thirsty for 
One truth. 

Rememberest thou, rememberest thou, hot heart, 
How then thou thirstedst ? 

In order to be excluded 

From all truth! 

Only a fool! Only a poet ! ' " 


Thus sang the wizard. And all who were there 
assembled, fell unawares like birds into the net of 
his cunning and melancholy lust. Only the con- 
scientious one of the spirit had not been caught. 
He quickly took the harp from the wizard, crying : 
" Air ! Let good air come in ! Let Zarathustra come 
in ! Thou makest this cave sultry and poisonous, thou 
bad old wizard ! 

Thou seducest, thou false one, thou refined one, 
unto unknown desires and wilderness. And, alas, that 
folk like thee should make much' trouble and many 
words with truth! 

Alas, for all free spirits, who are not on their 
guard against such wizards ! Gone is their freedom. 
Thou teachest and thereby allurest back into prisons ! 

Thou old melancholy devil, in thy wailing soundeth 
an alluring pipe. Thou art like unto such as with 
their praise of chastity secretly invite unto lust ! " 

Thus spake the conscientious one. But the old 
wizard looked round him, rejoicing in his victory, and 
swallowed the anger caused him by the conscientious 
one. "Be quiet!" he said with modest voice. "Good 




songs want good echo. After good songs one shall 
be silent long. 

Thus do all these, the higher men. But thou 
seemest to have understood little of my song. In 
thee is little of an enchanting spirit." 

"Thou praisest me," answered the conscientious 
one, " by separating me from thee. Go to ! But ye 
others, what do I see? Ye all still sit there with 
lustful eyes. 

Ye free souls, whither is your freedom gone ! 
Methinketh, ye are almost like such as have long 
looked at evil, dancing, naked girls. Your souls them- 
selves dance ! 

In you, ye higher men, there must be more of 
what the wizard calleth his evil spirit of enchantment 
and deceit. We seem to be very different. 

And, verily, we spake and thought enough together, 
before Zarathustra came home unto his cave, to enable 
me to know : we are different. 

We seek different things, even up here, ye and I. 
For I seek more security. Therefore have I come unto 
Zarathustra. For he is the firmest tower and will 

To-day when everything is shaken, when the whole 
earth trembleth. But, when I see the eyes ye make, 
methinketh almost, ye seek more insecurity, 

More shuddering, more danger, more earthquake.- 
Methinketh almost, ye long (forgive my haughtiness, 
ye higher men), 


Ye long after the evilest, most dangerous life, that 
causeth me the most fear, after the life of wild beasts, 
after forests, caves, steep mountains and labyrinthine 

And ye are not pleased best by those who lead 
you out of a danger, but by those who lead you 
away from all paths, by seducers. But if such a 
longing is truth in you, it nevertheless seemeth unto 
me impossible. 

For fear that is man's hereditary and fundamental 
feeling. By fear everything is explained, original sin 
and original virtue. Out of fear also hath grown my 
virtue, which is called Science. 

For the fear of wild beasts hath been bred in 
man for the longest time, including the beast he con- 
taineth and feareth in himself. Zarathustra calleth it 
'the beast inside.' 

Such long, old fear, at last become refined, spiritual, 
intellectual, to-day, methinketh, it is called Science" 

Thus spake the conscientious one. But Zarathustra 
who had just returned into his cave and had heard 
the last speech and guessed its sense, threw a hand- 
ful of roses at the conscientious one, laughing at his 
"truths." "What?" he called. "What did I hear 
just now? Verily, methinketh, thou art a fool, or I 
am one myself. And thy 'truth' I turn upside down 
with one blow, and that quickly. 

For fear is our exception. But courage and ad- 


venture, and the joy of what is uncertain, what hath 
never been dared courage, methinketh, is the whole 
prehistoric development of man. 

From the wildest, most courageous beasts he hath, 
by his envy and his preying, won all their virtues. 
Only thus hath he become a man. 

This courage, at last become refined, spiritual, in- 
tellectual, this human courage with an eagle's wings 
and a serpent's wisdom it, methinketh, is called 
to-day " 

" Zarathustra ! " cried all who sat together there, as 
from one mouth, making a great laughter withal. But 
a something was lifted from them like a heavy cloud. 
The wizard also laughed and said shrewdly : " Up ! 
He is gone, mine evil spirit ! 

And did not I myself warn you of him, when I 
said that he was a deceiver, a spirit of lying and 
deceit ? 

And quite especially, if he show himself naked. 
But are his intrigues my fault ? Did / create him 
and the world? 

Up ! Let us be good again and of good cheer ! 
And although Zarathustra gazeth angrily, look at 
him ! He is angry with me. 

Before night come, he will once more learn how 
to love and praise me. He cannot live long without 
doing such follies. 

He loveth his enemies. This art he knoweth best 


of all whom I have seen. But he taketh revenge for 
that on his friends ! " 

Thus spake the old wizard, and the higher men 
applauded him, so that Zarathustra went about and 
shook hands with his friends, mischievously and lov- 
ingly, as though he were one with amends to make 
unto every one for something, who hath to obtain for- 
giveness from all. But when he thus doing reached 
once more the door of his cave, behold, he felt again 
a desire for the good air out there and for his animals, 
and tried to steal outside again. 


" Go not away ! " said then the wanderer who called 
himself Zarathustra's shadow. " Remain with us ; 
otherwise we might be attacked again by the old 
gloomy affliction. 

That wizard hath already shown us something of 
his worst, and, behold, the good pious pope there 
hath tears in his eyes, and hath again set full sail 
for the sea of melancholy. 

These things there, it is true, will in our presence 
still display good humour, which they have learnt to- 
day better than any of us ! But if they had no wit- 
ness, I wager, with them also the evil game would 
begin anew. 

The evil game of wandering clouds, of damp melan- 
choly, of veiled heavens, of stolen suns, of howling 
autumn-storms ; 

The evil game of our howling and crying for help ! 
Stay with us, O Zarathustra ! Here is much hidden 
misery that will speak, much evening, much cloud, 
much damp air ! 



Thou hast nourished us with strong men's food and 
powerful sayings. Do not let us at dessert be attacked 
again by tender, effeminate spirits! 

Thou alone makest the air round thee strong and 
clear ! Have I ever found on earth air so good as with 
thee, in thy cave ? 

Many different lands have I seen, my nose hath 
learnt to examine and estimate many kinds of air ; 
but with thee my nostrils taste their highest delight ! 

Unless it be, unless it be oh, forgive an old 
reminiscence ! Forgive me an old desert song I once 
composed among daughters of the desert. 

For with them there was the same good bright 
oriental air ! There was I furthest from cloudy, damp, 
melancholy Old-Europe ! 

Then I loved oriental girls of that tribe, and other 
blue kingdoms of heaven, over which hung no clouds 
and no thoughts. 

Ye will not believe how prettily they sat there, 
when they did not dance ; deep, but without thoughts ; 
like little secrets ; like riddles with ribbons ; like nuts 
at dessert ; 

Many-coloured and strange, verily ! but without 
clouds ; riddles that can be read. To please such 
girls I then invented my dessert psalm." 

Thus spake the wanderer who called himself Zara- 
thustra's shadow. And before anybody could answer 
him, he had seized the old wizard's harp, crossed his 


legs, and looked round, worthy and wise. And with 
his nostrils he slowly and questioningly drew in the 
air, like one who tasteth new air in new countries. 
Then he began to sing with a kind of roar. 

" The desert groweth. Woe unto him who containeth 
deserts / 


. Solemn ! 

A worthy beginning! 

In African solemnity! 

Worthy of a lion, 

Or of a moral howling monkey, 

But nothing for you, 

Ye sweetest girl-friends, 

At the feet of whom 

I am permitted to sit, 

An European under palm-trees. Sela. 

Wonderful, verily ! 
There sit I now 

Nigh unto the desert, and already 
So far away from the desert, 
Not yet ruined in anything. 
For I am swallowed down- 
By this smallest oasis. 


It hath just opened yawning 

Its sweet mouth, 

The best smelling of all little mouths. 

Then I fell into it, 

Down, through it, among you, 

Ye sweetest girl-friends ! Sela. 

Hail ! hail ! unto that whale, 

If it made life for its guest 

So pleasant ! (Ye understand 

My learned allusion ?) 

Hail unto its belly, 

If it was thus 

A sweet belly of an oasis, 

Like this one ! (which I doubt however). 

The reason is : I come from Europe, 

Which is more sceptical than any little wife. 

May God mend things ! 


There sit I now, 

In this smallest oasis, 

Like a date 

Brown, sweetened through, suppurative with gold, 

Desirous for the round mouth of a girl, 

But still more for girl-like, 

Ice-cold, snow-white, cutting, 

Biting teeth. For after these pine 

The hearts of all hot dates. Sela. 


Like, all-too-like, 

Unto the southern fruits mentioned, 

Here I lie. 

Round about dance and play 

Little winged beetles, 

And in the same way still smaller, 

Still more foolish and wicked 

Wishes and fancies. 

Round about lie ye, 

Ye mute, ye prophetic 


Dudu and Suleika. 

Ye sphinx round me (to stuff 

Into one word many feelings. 

May God forgive me 

This sin against grammar!). 

Here sit I smelling the best air, 

Verily, the air of paradise, 

Bright, light air with golden stripes, 

As good air as ever fell down 

From the moon, 

Be it by chance, 

Or befell it by wantonness ? 

As the old poets tell the tale. 

But I, a doubter, doubt it. 

The reason is : I come 

From Europe 

Which is more sceptical than any little wife. 



May God mend things! 
Amen ! 

Breathing this finest air, 

My nostrils expanded like cups, 

Without a future, without memories, 

Here sit I, ye 

Sweetest girl-friends, 

And look at this palm-tree, 

How it, like a dancer, 

Boweth and bendeth and swingeth its hips 

(One doth the same, if one look at it too long) 

Like a dancer, who, (it would seem unto me,) 

Too long already, dangerously long, 

Had always, always stood on one little leg ! 

Then so doing she forgot (it would seem unto me) 

The other little leg ! 

At least in vain 

Sought I the missing 


I.e., the other little leg 

In the holy nearness 

Of her very sweetest, very neatest 

Little skirt with its fanning, fluttering, and shining. 

Yea, if ye will believe me wholly, 

Ye beautiful girl-friends : 

She hath lost it ! 

Hu! hu! hu! hu! hu! 


It is gone, 

Gone for ever, 

The other little leg! 

Oh, what a pity for this other sweet little leg 

Where doth it dwell and mourn forsaken, 

This lonely little leg? 

Perhaps in fear of a ferocious, 

Yellow, fair-haired, curly, 

Lion-monster? Or perhaps even 

Gnawed at and nibbled at 

Miserable, alas ! alas ! Nibbled at ! Sela. 

Oh, weep not, 

Soft hearts ! 

Weep not, ye 

Date-hearts ! Milk-bosoms ! 

Ye little licorice-heart's 


Be a man, Suleika ! Courage, courage ! 

Weep no more, 

Pale Dudu! 

Or might peradventure 

Something strengthening, heart-strengthening 

Be in the right place ? 

Some anointed saying? 

Some solemn persuasion ? 


Up, dignity! 


Blow, blow again, 
Bellows of virtue ! 

Brawl once more, 
Brawl morally, 

Brawl as a moral lion in the presence of daugh- 
ters of the desert ! 
For virtue-brawling, 
Ye sweetest girls, 
Is more than all else 
European fervency, European voracity! 
And there I stand already, 
As an European, 

I cannot do differently. So help me God! 
Amen ! 

The desert groweth. Woe unto him who containeth 
deserts f " 


After the song of the wanderer and shadow the 
cave became all at once full of noise and laughter, 
and the guests assembled speaking all at the same 
time, and the ass in the face of such an encour- 
agement no longer remaining silent, Zarathustra was 
seized by some displeasure and ridicule of his visitors, 
although he rejoiced in their gaiety. For it seemed 
unto him to be a token of convalescence. Thus he 
stole out into the open air and spake unto his animals. 

" Whither now hath their trouble gone ? " said he, 
and immediately he breathed again after his little 
displeasure. "In my dwelling, methinketh, they have 
unlearnt to cry for help ! 

Although, I grieve to say, not yet to cry altogether." 
And Zarathustra shut his ears with his hands, for 
just then the Hee-haw of the donkey mixed strangely 
with the joyous noise of these higher men. 

"They are gay," he began again, "and who know- 
eth ? perhaps at the expense of their host. And if 
they have learnt from me how to laugh, it is not yet 
my laughter they have learnt. 



But what matter ! They are old folk. They re- 
cover in their way, they laugh in their way. Mine 
ears have before suffered worse things and have not 
been angered. 

This day is a victory. He yieldeth, he flieth, the 
spirit of gravity, mine old archfiend ! How well is this 
day going unto an end, which began so ill and heavily ! 

And it is going unto an end. Already the evening 
cometh. It rideth over the sea unto us, the good 
rider ! How he swingeth, the blessed one, the return- 
ing one, in his purple saddles ! 

The sky looketh bright on it, the world lieth 
deep. O all ye strange ones who came unto me, it 
is well worth while to live with me ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. And then again the cry- 
ing and laughter of the higher men came from the 
cave. Then he began anew. 

"They bite at it. My bait hath its effect. From 
them also parteth their enemy, the spirit of gravity. 
Already they learn to laugh at themselves. Hear I 
aright ? 

My men's food hath its effect, my saying of power 
and vigour ! And, verily, I fed them not with flatu- 
lent vegetables ! But with warriors' food, with con- 
querors' food. New desires I awakened. 

New hopes are in their arms and legs. Their 
heart stretcheth itself out. They find new words, 
soon will their spirit breathe wantonness. 


Such a food may, it is true, not be for children, 
nor for longing little women old and young. Their 
intestines are persuaded differently. I am not their 
physician and teacher. 

The loathing leaveth these higher men. Up! that 
is my victory. In my kingdom they grow secure. 
All stupid shame fleeth away. They pour themselves 

They pour out their heart. Good hours return 
unto them. They cease from labour and ruminate. 
,They grow thankful. 

This I take as the best sign : they grow thankful. 
Ere long, they will invent festivals and put up stones 
in memoriam of their old enjoyments. 

They are convalescent ! " Thus spake Zarathustra 
gaily unto his heart and gazed out. But his animals 
thronged round him and honoured his happiness and 
his silence. 

But suddenly Zarathustra's ear was terrified. For 
the cave, which had hitherto been full of noise and 
laughter, became all at once as still as death. And 
his nose smelt the sweet-scenting smoke and frank- 
incense, as if it sprang from burning pine-cones. 

"What happeneth ? What do they? " he asked him- 
self and stole unto the entrance in order to be able 
to look at his guests, unobserved. But wonder over 


wonder! What had he then to look at with his own 
eyes ! 

" All of them have become pious again, they pray, 
they are insane ! " he said and was extremely aston- 
ished. And, verily, all these higher men, the two 
kings, the pope off duty, the evil wizard, the voluntary 
beggar, the wanderer and shadow, the old fortune- 
teller, the conscientious one of the spirit, and the 
ugliest man they were all, like children and faith- 
ful old women, down on their knees adoring the ass. 
And that very moment the ugliest man began to 
gargle and snort, as if something unutterable was 
about to come forth from him. But when he had 
actually reached the point of speaking, behold, it was 
a pious, strange litany in praise of the adored and 
incense-sprinkled ass. And this litany sounded thus : 

" Amen ! And praise and honour and wisdom and 
thanks and glory and strength be given unto our 
God, from everlasting unto everlasting ! " 

But the ass cried Hee-haw ! 

" He carrieth our burden, he hath taken the form 
of a slave, he is patient in his heart, and never saith 
Nay. And he who loveth his God, chastiseth him." 

But the ass cried Hee-haw! 

" He speaketh not, unless it be that he for ever 
saith ' Yea ' unto the world he created. Thus he 
praiseth his world. His policy it is not to speak. 
Thus he is rarely declared to be wrong." 


But the ass cried Hee-haw! 

"Without splendour he goeth through the world. 
Gray is the colour of his body, in which he wrappeth 
his virtue. If he hath spirit, he hideth it. But 
every one believeth in his long ears." 

But the ass cried Hee-haw ! 

"What hidden wisdom is in his wearing long ears 
and ever saying only ' Hee-haw ' and never ' Nay ' ! 
Hath he not created the world after his own image, 
i.e., as stupid as possible?" 
^ But the ass cried Hee-haw! 

"Thou goest straight and crooked ways. It con- 
cern eth thee little what exactly appeareth straight or 
crooked unto us men. Beyond good and evil is thy 
kingdom. It is thine innocence not to know what 
innocence is." 

But the ass cried Hee-haw ! 

"Behold, how thou pushest away none from thee, 
neither beggars nor kings. The little children thou 
lettest come unto thee, and when the bad boys allure 
thee, thou simply sayest ' Hee-haw.' " 

But the ass cried Hee-haw ! 

"Thou lovest she-asses and fresh figs, thou art no 
despiser of food. A thistle tickleth thy heart, when 
thou chancest to be hungry. Therein lieth a God's 

But the ass cried Hee-haw! 


At this point of the litany Zarathustra could no 
longer master himself. He himself cried Hee-haw 
still louder than the ass and leaped into the midst of 
his guests who had gone mad. " What do ye here, 
ye children of men ? " he called, tearing up from the 
ground the praying ones. " Alas, if anybody else 
should look at you save Zarathustra! 

Every one would judge that, with your new belief, 
ye were the worst blasphemers or the most foolish of 
all little old women ! 

And thou thyself, thou old pope, how agreeth it 
with thee thus to adore an ass as God ? " 

"O Zarathustra," answered the pope, "forgive me! 
But in matters of God I am more enlightened than 
thou. And it is right it should be thus. 

Rather adore God in this shape than in no shape ! 
Meditate over this saying, my lofty friend ! Thou find- 
est out quickly : there is wisdom in such a saying. 

He who said : ' God is a spirit,' hath hitherto made 
the greatest step and leap unto unbelief on earth. It 



is not easy to make on earth amends for such a 
word ! 

Mine old heart leapeth and hoppeth because there 
is still something to be adored on earth. Forgive that, 
O Zarathustra, unto the old pious heart of a pope ! " 

"And thou," said Zarathustra unto the wanderer 
and shadow, "thou callest and thinkest thyself a free 
spirit? And thou dost here such idolatry and service 
of priests ? 

Worse, verily, thou dost here than with thine evil 
brown girls, thou evil new believer ! " 

"It is bad enough," answered the wanderer and 
shadow, " thou art right. But how is it my fault ? The 
old God liveth again, O Zarathustra, thou mayest say 
whatever thou likest. 

All this is the fault of the ugliest man. He hath 
awakened him again. And if -he saith that he hath 
slain him, with Gods death is always only a preju- 

" And thou," said Zarathustra, " thou evil old wizard, 
what didst thou ? Who shall, in this time of freedom, 
believe any more in thee, if thou believest in such 
God-doltishnesses ? 

It was a stupidity thou didst. How couldst thou, 
thou prudent one, do such a stupidity ! " 

" O Zarathustra," answered the prudent wizard, " thou 
art right, it was a stupidity. Besides, it hath been 
hard enough upon me." 


"And even thou," said Zarathustra unto the con- 
scientious one of the spirit, " meditate and put thy 
finger unto thy nose ! Doth nothing here go contrary 
unto thy conscience ? Is thy spirit not too cleanly for 
this praying and the smell of these bigots ? " 

"There is something in that," answered the con- 
scientious one, putting his finger unto his nose, " there 
is something in this spectacle that gratifieth even my 

Perhaps I may not be allowed to believe in God. 
But certain it is that in this shape God seemeth unto 
me to be the most credible of all. 

God is said to be eternal according unto the testi- 
mony of the most pious. He who hath much time, 
taketh his time. As slow and as stupid as possible. 
TJiereby such an one can nevertheless go very far. 

And he who hath too much of the spirit, might 
well be infatuated with stupidity and folly. Meditate 
on thyself, O Zarathustra ! 

Thyself, verily ! even thou mightest become an ass 
out of abundance and wisdom. 

Doth not a perfect wise man prefer to walk by 
the most crooked roads ? Appearances teach thus, O 
Zarathustra, thine appearances ! " 

"And last of all thou," said Zarathustra, turning 
towards the ugliest man, who still lay on the ground rais- 
ing his arm unto the ass (for he gave it wine to drink). 
" Say, thou unutterable one, what didst thou there ! 


Thou seemest unto me to be changed ; thine eye 
gloweth; the mantle of what is sublime lieth round 
thine ugliness. What didst thou? 

Is it really true, what these say, that thou awaken- 
edst Him again ? And wherefore ? Was He not slain 
and put aside with good reason ? 

Thou thyself seemest unto me to be awakened. 
What didst thou ? What didst thon turn round ? Why 
wert thou converted ? Say, thou unutterable one ! " 

"O Zarathustra," answered the ugliest man, "thou 
aft a villain ! 

Whether He is still alive, or liveth again, or is 
thoroughly dead, which of us two knoweth that best ? 
I ask thee. 

But one thing I know. From thyself I once learned 
it, O Zarathustra. He who wanteth to kill most thor- 
oughly, laugheth. 

'Not through wrath, but through laughter one 
slayeth,' thus saidest thou once. O Zarathustra, thou 
hidden one, thou destroyer without wrath, thou danger- 
ous saint, thou art a villain ! " 

Then it came to pass that Zarathustra, astonished 
at such mere villains' answers, leaped back unto the 
door of his cave and, turning towards all his guests, 
cried with a strong voice : 


" O ye buffoons assembled, O ye clowns ! Why do 
ye dissemble and hide in my presence? 

How the hearts of all of you bounded with delight 
and wickedness, because ye at last became once more 
like the little children, i.e., pious, 

That at last ye did again as children do, i.e., prayed, 
folded your hands, and said ' dear God ! ' 

But now leave unto me this nursery, mine own cave, 
where to-day all childishness is at home. Cool down 
here outside your hot children's wantoning and noise 
of hearts ! 

True, if ye become not like the little children, ye 
will not go into that kingdom of heaven." (And Zara- 
thustra pointed upwards with his hands.) 

" But we do not want to go into the kingdom of 
heaven ! We have become men. Thus we will the 
kingdom of earth." 

And once more began Zarathustra to speak. "O 
my new friends," said he, "ye strange ones, ye higher 
men, how well am I pleased by you, 

Since ye have become gay again ! Verily, ye all 
have begun to blossom. Methinketh, for such flowers 
as ye are, new festivals are required, 

Some little downright nonsense, some God-service 
and ass-festival, some old gay Zarathustra fool, a 
whirlwind that fanneth your souls into brightness. 


Forget not this night and this ass-festival, ye higher 
men ! That was invented by you in my home ; that is 
taken by me as a good omen. Such things are in- 
vented solely by convalescent ones ! 

And if ye celebrate it again, this ass-festival, do it 
for the sake of your own love, do it also for the sake 
of my love ! And unto my memory ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. 


In the meantime one after the other had stepped 
out into the open air and into the cool, thoughtful 
night. Zarathustra himself led the ugliest man by 
the hand, in order to show him his night-world and 
the great round moon and the silvery waterfalls nigh 
unto his cave. There at last they stood silently to- 
gether, all old men, but with comforted, brave hearts, 
and astonished at themselves, because they felt so well 
on earth. But the secrecy of night came nigher and 
nigher unto their hearts. And once more Zarathustra 
thought in his mind : " Oh, how well am I now pleased 
with them, these higher men ! " But he did not say 
it aloud, for he honoured their happiness and their 

Then a thing came to pass, the most astonishing 
of that astonishing long day. The ugliest man began 
once more, and for the last time, to gargle and snort. 
And when he had found words, behold, a question 
sprang round and clean from his mouth, a good, deep, 
clear question, which moved the heart in the body of 
all who listened. 



"Mine assembled friends," said the ugliest man, 
"what think ye? For the sake of this day, / am 
for the first time content to have lived the whole of 

And to bear witness for so much is not yet enough 
for me. It is worth while to live on earth. One day, 
one festival with Zarathustra, taught me to love earth. 

'Hath that been life?' I shall say unto death. 
' Up ! Once more ! ' 

My friends, what think ye? Will ye not, like me, 
say unto death : ' Hath that been life ? For Zara- 
thustra's sake, up ! Once more ! '" 

Thus spake the ugliest man. But it was not far 
from midnight. And what think ye then befell ? As 
soon as the higher men had heard his question, all at 
once they became conscious of their change and con- 
valescence and who occasioned them. Then they 
leaped towards Zarathustra, thanking, revering, fon- 
dling, kissing his hands, each in his own peculiar way, 
so that some laughed and some cried. But the old 
wizard danced with pleasure. And though he then, as 
some tale-tellers think, was full of sweet wine, he was 
certainly still fuller of sweet life and had renounced all 
weariness. There are even such as tell that then even 
the ass danced. For not in vain had the ugliest man 
(it is said) given it wine to drink before. This may 
be so, or it may be otherwise. And if in truth the ass 
did not dance that night, greater and stranger wonders 



happened, than the dancing of an ass would have 
been. In short, as Zarathustra's saying goeth, " What 
matter ! " 

When this came to pass with the ugliest man, 
Zarathustra stood there like one drunken. His look 
was dimmed, his tongue stammered, his feet staggered. 
And who could guess what thoughts then passed over 
Zarathustra's soul ? But his spirit apparently retreated 
and fled before him, and was in far distances, and, as 
it were, " walking like a heavy cloud on a high ridge," 
as it is written, 

"Between two seas, between what is past and 
what is to come." But by and by, while the higher 
men held him in their arms, he came back somewhat 
unto himself, and with his hands hindered the throng 
of the revering and anxious ones. But he spake not. 
All at once he swiftly turned his head, for he seemed 
to hear something. Then he laid his finger on his 
mouth and said : " Come ! " 

And immediately it grew still and home-like round 
about. But from the depth there rose slowly the 
sound of a bell. Zarathustra listened unto it, like the 
higher men. But then, for a second time, he laid his 
finger on his mouth and said again : " Come ! come ! 
It is nigJi unto midnight!" And his voice had 
changed. But not yet did he move from the spot. 


Then it grew still quieter and more home-like, and 
everything hearkened, including the ass and Zarathus- 
tra's animals of honour, the eagle and the serpent; 
and likewise Zarathustra's cave, and the great cool 
moon, and the night itself. But Zarathustra, for a 
third time, laid his hand on his mouth and said : 

"Come ! Come ! Come ! Let us walk now ! It is 
the hour! Let us walk into the night! 


Ye higher men, it is nigh unto midnight. Now I 
will say something into your ears, as that old bell 
telleth it into mine; 

As familiarly, as terribly, as heartily, as speaketh 
unto me that midnight-bell which hath seen more 
than any man ; 

Which hath long ago counted the pulses of your 
fathers' heart-beat, and pain. Alas ! alas ! how it sigh- 
eth ! how it laugheth in dream ! the old, deep, deep 
midnight ! 

Hush! hush! Then many things are heard which 
are not permitted to become audible in daytime. 
But now, in the cool air, after even all noise of your 
hearts hath been stilled ; 

Now they speak, now they are heard, now they 
steal into night-like over-wakeful souls. Alas ! alas ! 
how midnight sigheth, how it laugheth in dream! 


Hearest thou not, how it familiarly, terribly, heart- 
ily speaketh unto thee old, deep, deep midnight? 
man, lose not sight ! 

Woe unto me ! Whither is time gone ? Sank I 
not into deep wells ? The world sleepeth. 

Alas ! alas ! The dog howleth, the moon shineth. 
Rather will I die, die than tell you what my midnight- 
heart thinketh this moment. 

Now I have died. It is gone. Spider, why spinnest 
thou round me ? Wouldst thou have blood ? Alas ! 
alas ! The dew falleth, the hour cometh ! 

The hour when I feel cool and cold, which asketh 
and asketh and asketh : ' Who hath courage enough ? 

Who shall be the master of earth ? Who will say : 
" Thus shall ye flow, ye great and small streams ! " 

The hour approacheth ! O man, thou higher man, 
lose not sight ! This speech is for fine ears, for thine 
ears. What saith the deep midnight? 


I am carried away. My soul danceth. Work of 
the day ! Work of the day ! Who shall be the 
master of earth ? 

The moon is cool, the wind is silent. Alas ! alas ! 
Have ye hitherto flown high enough ? Ye danced. 
But ye see, a leg is not a wing. 


Ye good dancers, now all lust is gone. Wine be- 
came lees, every cup became mellow, the graves 

Ye have not flown high enough. Now the graves 
stammer : ' Redeem the dead ! Why is it night so 
long ? Doth the moon not make us drunken ? ' 

Ye higher men, redeem the graves, awaken the 
corpses ! Alas ! Why diggeth the worm ? The hour 
approacheth, approacheth. 

The bell hummeth, even the heart purreth, even 
the wood-worm, the heart-worm, diggeth. Alas ! alas ! 
The world is deep! 


Sweet lyre ! Sweet lyre ! I love thy tone, thy 
drunken tone of toads ! From what time, from what 
distance, come thy tones unto me, from a far distance, 
from the ponds of love ? 

Thou old bell, thou sweet lyre ! Every pain made 
a gap in thy heart, the pain of the father, the pain of 
the fathers, the pain of the forefathers. Thy speech 
hath become ripe ; 

Ripe as a golden autumn and afternoon, as my 
hermit-heart. Now speakest thou: 'The world itself 
hath become ripe, the grape becometh brown. 

Now it wanteth to die, to die of happiness.' Ye 
higher men, do ye not smell it? Secretly an odour 
springeth up. 


A smell and odour of eternity, a smell blissful as roses, 
brown, like golden wine, an odour of old happiness ! 

An odour of the drunken happiness of midnight- 
death, that singeth : ' The world is deep, and deeper 
than ever day thought it might!' 

Leave me ! Leave me ! I am too pure for thee ! 
Touch me not ! Hath my world not this moment 
become perfect ? 

My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me, thou 
stupid, doltish, sultry day ! Is midnight not brighter ? 

The purest shall be the lords of earth ; the least 
recognised, the strongest, the midnight-souls, which 
are brighter and deeper than any day. 

O day, thou graspest after me ? Thou gropest for 
my happiness ? For thee I am rich, lonely, a treasure 
pit, a gold chamber ? 

O world, thou wantest me? Am I of the world 
for thee ? Am I spiritual for thee ? Am I divine 
for thee ? But day and world, ye are too bulky. 

Have cleverer hands ; grasp for deeper happiness, 
for deeper misfortune ; grasp for any God, grasp not 
for me ! 

My misfortune and my happiness are deep, thou 
strange day, and yet I am no God, no God's hell. 
Deep is its woe. 



God's woe is deeper, thou strange world ! Grasp 
for God's woe, not for me ! What am I ? A drunken 
sweet lyre. 

A midnight-lyre, a bell-toad, understood by no 
one, but compelled to speak, before deaf ones, ye 
higher men ! For ye understand me not ! 

Gone ! Gone ! Oh, youth ! Oh, noon ! Oh, after- 
noon ! Now evening and night and midnight have 
cgme. The dog howleth, the wind. 

Is the wind not a dog? It whimpereth, barketh, 
howleth. Alas ! alas ! How midnight sigheth ! How 
it laugheth, how it rattleth and panteth, midnight ! 

How it now speaketh soberly, this drunken poet ! 
Did it overdrink its drunkenness? Did it become 
over-wakeful ? Doth it ruminate ? 

It ruminateth upon its woe in dream, the old deep 
midnight. And it still more ruminateth upon its de- 
light. For delight, if woe be deep, be deep already 
deeper is still than woe delight. 


Thou vine-plant! Why praisest thou me? Did 
I not cut thee? I am cruel, thou bleedest. What 
meaneth thy praise of my drunken cruelty ? 

'Whatever hath become perfect, all that is ripe, 


wanteth to die ! ' thou sayest. Be the vine-knife 
blessed, blessed ! But all that is unripe, wanteth to 
live ! Alas ! 

Saith woe : ' Pass, go ! Away, thou woe ! ' But 
everything that suffereth wanteth to live in order to 
become ripe and gay and longing, 

Longing for what is more distant, higher, brighter. 
'I want heirs,' thus saith everything that suffereth, 
' I want children, I want not myself? 

But delight wanteth not heirs, not children. Delight 
wanteth itself, wanteth eternity, wanteth recurrence, 
wanteth everything to be eternally equal unto itself. 

Saith woe : ' Break, bleed, heart ! Walk, leg ! Wing, 
fly! Up! Upward! Pain!' Up! Up! Oh, mine 
old heart ! Saith woe : ' Pass, go ! ' 


Ye higher men, what appeareth unto you ? Am I 
a prophet ? A dreamer ? A drunken one ? An inter- 
preter of dreams ? A midnight-bell ? 

A drop of dew ? A smell and odour of eternity ? 
Hear ye not ? Smell ye not ? This moment hath my 
world become perfect. Midnight is noon also ! 

Pain is a delight also ! Curse is a blessing also. 
Night is a sun also. Go off! Otherwise ye will 
learn : A wise man is a fool also. 

Said ye ever Yea unto one delight ? O my 


friends, if ye did, ye have also said Yea unto all woe. 
All things are chained, knotted, in love. 

If ye ever wanted to have one time twice, if ye 
ever said : ' Thou pleasest me, O happiness, O in- 
stant, O moment ! ye wished everything to come back ! ' 

Everything anew, everything eternal, everything 
chained, knotted, in love. Oh ! thus ye loved the 
world ! 

Ye eternal ones, ye love it eternally and for all 
time. And even unto woe ye say : ' Pass, go, but 
return ! For eternity s sought by all delight ! ' 


Eternity of all things is sought by all delight. 
Honey, lees, drunken midnight, graves, comfort of tears 
at graves, gilded evening red, are sought by it. 

What is not sought by delight ! It is thirstier, 
heartier, hungrier, more dreadful, more familiar than 
all woe. It seeketh itself, it biteth into itself. The 
will of the ring struggleth in it. 

It seeketh love ; it seeketh hatred ; it is over-rich ; 
it giveth ; it throweth away ; it beggeth, that one may 
take it ; it thanketh him who taketh ; it would fain be 

So rich is delight, that it thirsteth for me, for. hell, 
for hatred, for shame, for the cripple, for world, for 
this world ! Oh, ye know it ! 


Ye higher men, for yourselves it longeth, delight, 
the unruly, blissful one, for your woe, ye ill-con- 
stituted ! For failures all eternal delight longeth ! 

For all delight seeketh itself. Therefore it also 
seeketh woe ! Oh, happiness ! Oh, pain ! Oh, 
break, heart ! Ye higher men, learn that eternity is 
sought by delight. 

Eternity of all things is sought by delight, eternity 
deep by all delight! 


Have ye now learnt my song? Guessed ye what 
it seeketh ? Up ! up ! Ye higher men, sing now 
my roundelay ! 

Sing now yourselves the song whose name is 
' Once more,' whose sense is ' For all eternity ! ' 
Sing, ye higher men, Zarathustra's roundelay ! 

O man ! Lose not sight ! 

What saith the deep midnight? 

'/ lay in sleep, in sleep ; 

From deep dream I woke to light. 

The world is deep, 

And deeper than ever day thought it might. 

Deep is its woe, 

And deeper still than woe delight.' 

Saith woe : ' Pass, go ! 

Eternity ' j souglit by all delight, 

Eternity deep by all delight ! ' ' 

But the morning after that night Zarathustra 
jumped up from his couch, girded his loins, and 
stepped out of his cave, glowing and strong, like a 
morning sun coming from dark mountains. 

"Thou great star," he said, as he had said once, 
!"thou deep eye of happiness, what would be all thy 
happiness, if thou hadst not those for whom thou 
shinest ! 

And if they would remain in their chambers, 
while thou art awake and comest and givest and 
distributest, how angry would thy proud shame be 
at that! 

Up ! They sleep still, these higher men, whilst / 
am awake. They are not my proper companions! 
Not for them wait I here in my mountains. 

Unto my work will I go, unto my day. But they 
understand not what are the signs of my morning. 
My step is for them not a call that awaketh them 
from sleep ! 

They sleep still in my cave. Their dream drinketh 
still at my drunken songs. The ear that hearkeneth 
for me, the obeying ear, is lacking in their limbs." 



This had Zarathustra said unto his heart, when 
the sun rose. Then he asking looked upward, for he 
heard above him the sharp cry of his eagle. " Up ! " 
he shouted upward, "thus it pleaseth me and is due 
unto me. Mine animals are awake, for I am awake. 

Mine eagle is awake and, like me, honoureth the 
sun. With an eagle's claws he graspeth for the new 
light. Ye are my proper animals. I love you. 

But my proper men are still lacking unto me ! " 

Thus spake Zarathustra. Then it came to pass 
that he heard of a sudden that he was surrounded by 
numberless birds that swarmed and fluttered. But 
the whizzing of so many wings, and the thronging 
round his head were so great that he shut his eyes. 
And, verily, like a cloud something fell upon him, 
like a cloud of arrows discharged over a new enemy. 
But, behold, here it was a cloud of love, and it 
hovered over a new friend. 

"What happeneth unto me?" Zarathustra thought 
in his astonished heart, and slowly sat down on the 
big stone which lay beside the exit of his cave. But 
while he grasped with his hands round himself, and 
above himself, and below himself, and kept back the 
tender birds, behold, something still stranger hap- 
pened unto him. He unawares laid hold of dense 
warm shaggy hair. At the same time a roaring was 
heard before him, a gentle, long roaring of a lion. 

" The sign conieth" said Zarathustra, and his heart 


changed. And, in truth, when it grew light before 
him, there lay a yellow powerful animal at his feet, 
and clung with its head at his knees, and would not 
leave him, and did thus out of love, and did as a 
dog doth when he findeth his old master again. But 
the doves with their love were no less eager than the 
lion. And every time when a dove flew quickly across 
the nose of the lion, the lion shook its head and won- 
dered and laughed. 

Whilst all this went on, Zarathustra said but one 
thing : " My children are nigh) my children" Then 
ne became quite mute. But his heart was loosened, 
and from his eyes tears dropped and fell upon his 
hands. And he no more took notice of anything 
and sat there unmoved, and without keeping the 
animals back any more. Then the doves flew to and 
fro and sat down on his shoulder, and fondled his 
white hair, and wearied not with tenderness and 
rejoicing. But the strong lion always licked the 
tears which fell down on Zarathustra's hands, and 
roared and hummed shyly. Thus did these animals. 

This all took a long time or a short time. For, 
properly speaking, for such things there is no time 
on earth. But in the meantime the higher men had 
awakened in Zarathustra's cave and arranged them- 
selves into a procession in order to go to meet Zara- 
thustra and to offer him their morning greeting. 
For they had found, when they awoke, that he no 


more dwelt among them. But when they came unto 
the door of the cave, and the sound of their steps 
went before them, the lion, terribly startled, turned 
all at once away from Zarathustra, and leaped, 
wildly roaring, towards the cave. But the higher 
men, when they heard him roar, all cried out as with 
one mouth, and fled back and vanished in a moment. 

But Zarathustra himself, stunned and strange, rose 
from his seat, looked round, stood there astonished, 
asked his heart, remembered, and was alone. "What 
heard I ? " he at last said slowly. " What happened 
unto me this moment?" 

And immediately his memory came back, and with 
one look he understood all that had happened be- 
tween yesterday and to-day. " Here is the stone," he 
said and stroked his beard. " On it I sat yester-morn- 
ing. And here the fortune-teller stepped unto me; 
and here for the first time I heard the cry I heard 
this moment, the great cry for help. 

Oh, ye higher men, of your need it was that 
yester-morning that old fortune-teller told me his 

Unto your need he tried to seduce me and tempt 
me. ' O Zarathustra,' he said unto me, ' I come to 
seduce thee unto thy last sin.' 

Unto my last sin ? " cried Zarathustra, and angrily 
laughed at his own word. " What hath been reserved 
for me as my last sin ? " 



And once more Zarathustra sank into himself and 
again sat down on the great stone and meditated. 
Suddenly he jumped up. 

" Pity ! Pity for the higher man ! " he cried out, 
and his face turned into brass. "Up! That hath 
had its time ! 

My woe and my pity, what matter? Do I seek for 
happiness? I seek for my work! 

Up ! the lion hath come. My children are nigh. 
Zarathustra hath ripened. Mine hour hath come ! 


- This is my morning. My day beginneth ! Come up, 
then, come up, thou great noon!" 

Thus spake Zarathustra and left his cave, glowing 
and strong, like a morning sun which cometh from 
dark mountains. 








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" It is a study of the whole development of humanity in a new light, and it is 
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1. THE WISDOM OF LIFE : Being the First Part of ARTHUR SCHO- 

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